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“YOU fool! what are you DRIV1N(J me to?” 





THE OTHER HOUSE; 


A STUDY OF HUMAN NATURE 



KATE'JORDAN 


But none shall triumph a whole life throug'h ; 

For death is one and the Fates are three. 

At the door of life, by the gate of breath, 

There are worse things waiting for men than death. 

— The Triumph of Time. 


NEW YORK 


2,rs-^7X 


LOVELL, CORYELL & COMPANY 


43, 45 AND 47 EAST TENTH STREET 


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Copyright, 1892, 

BY 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

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\All rights reservedJX 



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IB. S. millart) 


WHOSE INTERPRETATION OF “ JUDAH ” SUGGESTED 
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THE OTHER HOUSE. 


CHAPTER I. 





- 


The cab fairly lagged over 
the muddy road. It seemed as 
if the jaded horse was doomed 
to crawl on so forever. Rain- 
drops pattered with a dainty 
cadence iijDon the glass and 
broke into little streams fol- 
lowing waveriiig courses. 

To the two women sitting within there 
was a sui>:2:estion of the thin fos: curlins: in 
the air, occasional glimpses of empty lots, 
smoky factories, ami electric lights that 
burned in the opaque dusk like huge bril- 
liants set in a misty halo. 

Another lunge of the wheels into one of 
the ruts in the neglected road, and then a 


8 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


word in scatliiuo; accents left Mrs. Ventnor’s 

o 

lips for perhaps the twentieth time that 
afternoon. 

“ Provdncial ! ” 

The girl sitting opposite to her smiled, her 
superb eyes softly shining as she looked at 
the wet panes and unlovely street. 

“Provincial, yes. But I like it. After 
all, France, you oughtn’t to mind a few 
stumbles. The pavements of New York are 

A 

no better. I can recall one place at Fifth 
Avenue and ” 

“ Oh, it isn’t the pavements,” exclaimed 
the other, with a shiver that made her mack- 
intosh rustle; it’s — it’s everything. It’s 
that hori’id ferry ; the mean, little streets ; 
the dead and alive tone of the place. It’s 
being away from everyone one likes, every- 
one one knows.” 

“ That particular corner table in Delnioni- 
co’s ? I see it in my eye. Poor old France, 
how Mull you exist without it here ? ” 

“ Yes, and all the rest of it. The New 
York tone, the elevated roads, the very 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


9 


cobblestones, tlie Boliemiaii esprit de corps. 
Can you define the cliarni of a big town — 
the tlirol) and thrill vibratino; in tlie atmos- 
phere — the succession of faces and gestures 
seen for a second, and then probably lost 
sight of forever? Oh, there’s such an intoxi- 
cation in feeling only a drop in the ocean, 
Marian dear. You’ll miss it too. And to 
think that this town is only a few miles 
from New York. It seems absurd.” 

Marian rubbed her daintily gloved fingers 
over the glass, and peered out. She was 

very beautiful, with slow-moving, mysterious 
eyes, a laughing mouth, a patrician air. 

I’m going to love it. This is only the out- 
skirts. Wait until you see Macedon Place.” 
With an impetuous movement she leaned 
forward and seized the elder woman’s hands 
in a grasp that was fierce. 

^‘I’m so glad to leave all that other life 
that you regret. We can go back if I 
change my mind, you old dear. But you 
mustn’t run away and leave me. And in the 
meantime, this little place I’ve leased means 


10 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


peace. It means a domain where I am to be 
absolute mistress. Why, France, for the 
first few months I think I’ll just lie on a 
couch by the long window and watch the 
trees blossom in my little garden.” ■ 

Her voice was like velvet with underlying 
passion delicately suggested. 

“ And you won’t I'egret any, of all those 
you know ? ” and Mrs. Veutnor shook her 
head wonderiugly. 

“ No,” with a curl of her lip. 

“ And you are honestly tired of gayety so 
soon ? ” 

“ Desperately.” 

“ It’s unusual for young women to arrive 
at the conclusion that ‘all is vanity’ so 
early. Sometimes I think you are a hundred 
instead of twenty-four. Then again, you 
act like a child of six, or a fool. When I 
think of the chances you’ve tlu'own away, 
Dick Osborn, old Westford, little Chauncey 
Frere, all 'wild about you, money galore. 
Oh, you can be such a fool ! ” 

Marian laughed mei'illy, and threw back 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


11 


lier head. For a moment a child makino; 
cowslip balls could not have looked more 
innocently gay. 

And I’ve given them all the slip. One 
will go to Rome to find me, another to Paris, 
another to the Yosemite. What a lark ! Pah, 
how tired I had grown of them. They served 
to amuse me, one after the other, but I want 
no other entano;lement. I’ve had one — and 
there is nothino; so nauseating: as facino; the 
living reminder of a dead fancy. Henceforth, 
I’ll keep love at arm’s length.” 

Mrs. Ventnor leaned back with a tolerant 
smile, slightly tempered with weariness. A 
moment later, the cab came to a stand* still. 

Here we are at Macedon Place,” and 
Marian threw open the door. “ Oh, how 
pretty it is. I dare you to deny its beauty. 
See, we are advanced enough to have an 
electric light on the corner, conveniently near 
my gate, and it makes the raindrops on my 
garden — mark the possessive case ? — sparkle 
like gems.” 

Before them stretched a row of quaint, 


12 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


red brick Louses, all exactly alike, with ti'im 
gardens sloping down to the iron palings that 
di^dded them from the street. There ■was a 
woodland glamour over this tree-shaded cor- 
ner of the town, a spring-time charm, that 
was restful and sweet. 

Between wheezy groans and little exclama- 
tions, Mrs. Ventnor collected her pug, her 
novel, her foot-’warmer, her lorgnette. She 
dropped them all on the hearth-rug before 
the open fire that filled the old-fashioned 
hall Avith golden light, making mysterious 
shadoAA's steal like great, eager fingers up the 
winding stairs. Marian threw off her cloak, 
and draAving up her young figure, placed her 
hands independently on her hips. 

“It’s not half bad ; is it? ” 

“ No,’’ Avith a sloAv doubtfulness that ended 
in a sigh of content. 

“ And it’s aesthetic from the front door to 
the attic AvindoAvs,” continued IMarian, Avith 
an egregious self-satisfaction that Avas con- 
tagioxis ; “ I selected eveiything myself, and 
kept the Philistines from leaving their trail 


I 




it’s not half bad ; IS IT ? 















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THE OTHER HOUSE. 


13 


upon the place. But the fun of it is, that 
the people in the other houses don’t know 
what to make of me. I’ve always come 
veiled, and rushed in and out quickly. I 
want them to think me a horrid woman, 
thoroughl}’ undesirable.” 

“ And Avhy, pray 1 ” asked Mrs. Ventnor, 
drowsily. 

“ So they won’t force their acquaintance 
upon me. I’ve come to escape people. I 
don’t want to love my neighbor.” 

“ I dare say they are all very ordinary, 
have never been off their native heath — no 
breadth of vision, probably ! ” 

“ I can fancy their faces if they chanced 
upon you with a cigarette and one of 
Zola’s ! ” and Marian held uj) her hands as 
she drew off her gloves. 

“ Fancy people living who take the trouble 
to object to such things. It must be a great 
bother to have principles.” And as Mrs. 
Ventnor swejot around to examine a piece of 
dim tapestry on the wall, she gave an unc- 
tuous sigh. 


14 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


“ I don’t know bow you feel, Marian dar- 
ling, but I’m bungry. Do insinuate dinner 
upon tbe table. I hope you have sometbing 
fit to eat ! ’’ 

“ I promise you a sweetbread Del couldn’t 
improve on. For your sake I searched far 
and near until I found a good cook. Come 
along and dress.” 

Marian passed ber arm round ber com- 
panion’s ample waist, and so for tbe first 
time they went up tbe stairs together. 

A little later Mrs. Yentnor was struggling 
into a close-fitting l)odice of brocade and jet. 

“ What nonsense to dress, and we all alone 
in this wilderness, but Marian is a fanciful 
creature, so fond of effect.” 

Her large, lazy eyes with little pouches 
under them, indicating years and high living, 
glanced complacently around tbe l^eautiful 
room. What could be more inviting than 
tbe wood-fire keeping off tbe March chill, tbe 
sheepskin rug, tbe gray crepe bangings em- 
broidered with green butterflies, tlie heap of 
novels on tbe little Cbijipendale desk that 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


15 


mirrored the flame in its polished wood ? 
Marian had foro;otten nothino;. 

How long will this fancy last ? she 
thoimht as she dusted her chin with rice 

O 

powder. “It's silly of me. But it’s sheer 
madness on Marian’s part.” 

She paused to rub a little black cosmetic 
to the rim of her heavy lids, and then stepped 
back to observe the effect. 

“ AVith her beauty and youth, to buiy her- 
self like this ! She has a queer streak in her. 
This is March. Ten to one, we’ll be on an 
ocean steamer in July. Monte Cailo after 
this experiment will possess the refreshing 
qualities of a Roman j)ui^ch in the middle 
of a heavy dinner.” 

A white hand drew the gray-green port- 
iere at the door aside, and Marian stepped in. 

She was supremely lovely in dead-white 
draperies. No stiff bodice hid the beauty of 
her bust, around which she had tightly 
wrapped a crepe scarf heavy with silver 
embroidery, and from this to her feet the 
sheer, crinkled stuff fell down in folds that 


16 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


miglit fittingly Lave covered the limbs of a 
goddess. White throat and arms were bai'e 
of jewels, but a diamond star burned in the 
dusky masses of her hair. 

There was something strange, almost repel- 
lent, ill her beauty. Her mouth was both 
scornful and laughing, the upper lip, a little 
fuller than the under, and gave her face a 
mutinous, alluring expression ; the faint 
glow on her smooth cheeks Avas like the re- 
flection of fire on snow; her shadowy eyes 
Avere filled Avith a cynical light, as if they 
mocked at herself and all the Avorld. With 
the suggestion that there Avere deeps in her 
soul yet unsounded, her face for all its beau- 
ty Avas soulless, and the light in her eyes 
Avas cold. 

W^heii dinner Avas o\mr Mrs. Ventnor 
rolled a few cigarettes before the Avide-eyed 
maid, Avho tried not to look scandalized. 
Marian never stained her fragrant lips Avith 
the poison her chaperon found so delicions, 
but lazily Avatched the blue rings curl among 
the roses and shaded candles, her eyes half- 





TEE OTHER HOUSE. 


17 


closed and dreamy, as she sipped some sweet, 
sticky liqueur. 

What are yon thinking of ? asked Mrs. 
Ventnor. You look inscrutable. 

“ I am only wondering if there was a ro- 
mance attached to that old murder, and if I 
will ever find it out.” 

“ A murder ? Good Heavens — where ? ” 

Here.” 

Down went the cigarette, and wide open 
Mrs. Ventnor’s mouth. 

Oh, and you never told me.” 

“What’s the matter? You’re surely not 
afraid of ghosts. Yes, this little house first 
won me by its bloody record,” and she 
leaned her elbows on the table, letting her 
finger-tips meet and glancing into the sliad- 
owy corners. “ Within its walls a revolting, 
^cold-blooded murder Avas committed years 
ago. There, don’t look horrified, the place is 
Avarranted not haunted. Will you hear the 
story ? It’s veiy short.” 

“ Go on. It only needed this to convince 


me 


18 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


“That T am crazy? Very good. Bless 
you, I don’t mind. I heard of this house 
quite by chance. I took pains to learn all 
the details. A little more than ten yeai’s 
asro, an eldei'lv l)achelor who lived here alone 
was found dead on the floor of Lis chamber, 
a knife sticking in his lieart. The reason for 
the murder, how and 1)v whom it was com- 
mitted, will forever remain a mystery. No- 
body in the neighborhood knew him but the 
people who lived next dooi‘, and they had 
not seen nor heard anything suspicious. 
Doors and windows were all secured from 
the inside, nothing was disturbed, nothing, 
as far as could be ascertained was stolen. 
Clearly the crime had been committed by 
some person in the house. Yet the gardenei*, 
a faitliful, stammering old man who slept in 
a room on the ground floor, and the stupid 
German maid who stumbled upon her master’s 
l)ody when she carried his hot water in the 
morning, were beyond sus})icion, and it was 
impossible from the position of the l)ody and 
the force of the blow, that the man could have 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


19 


killed himself. It was relegated to the limbo 
of imfathomed mysteries. The people next 
door left a scene that had become unpleasant, 
and this house was closed. For ten years it 
remained practically vacant. I heard of it, 
saw it, fell in love with that crooked old elm 
in the middle of tlie garden, and here I am.” 
“ What room was the body found in ? ” 
and Mrs. Ventnor rose suddenly, a little 
catch in her voice. 

“ In mine, of course.” 

I thought so. It’s uncanny, it’s horrible. 
This cultivation of a diseased cravino; for ab- 
normal sensations ^vdll be your ruin. You 
run away from men who persecute you with 
love to whet your perverted imagination by 
living in a haunted house.” 

Some jDeople like red j:)epper,” Marian 
said, coolly, as she led the way out. 

But you must listen to me.” 

Marian swung around suddenly, and laid 
her hand on her protesting lips. 

No more of ghosts to-night. Or, come, I 
will exorcise them.” 


20 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


She swept into the little library, Mrs. 
Ventnor following, her chubby shoulders 
shivering a- little, her mouth pursed up in a 
pout. 

It’s weeks since I have touched it.” 
There w^as a note of tenderness in Marian’s 
voice, like a mother's in speaking of a favoiite 
child. Come, my one love. Ah, what de- 
lightful hours w^e will spend together here.” 
She lifted a violin from its case, and rested 
her chin lovingly on it, the l)ow drooping in 
her hand. After this moment’s pause she 
raised her arm with a sweep of potent grace, 
poised her body restfully, and sent the first 
notes of Rubinstein’s Melodie in F trem- 
bling through the silence. 

o O 


CHAPTER II. 


It was long past ten when Hugh Lar- 
remore turned into Macedon Place that 
night. The day had been long and more 
than usually dreary. He had spent some 

heavy hours in the shaded chambers of 

«/ 

wealthy patients, and in the dirty corners of 
the town where disease held the same, grim 
dominion. The faces of the dying had felt 
the caress of his hand. He had listened in 
silent j)ain to futile prayers for life, dear life, 
from lips growing cold. It had been a hard 
winter, and a lo^v, sluggish fever was every- 
where. 

There are physicians who operate on these 
wonderful bodies of ours without much 
thought beyond the mechanism of the ma- 
chine, who saw or cut after the manner of a 
skilful carpenter, but to whom the unex- 
plained departure of the spark that animates 


22 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


the flesh presents no astonnding secret to 
cause a moment’s sadness or Avonderinent. 
Hugh Avas not one of tliese. He had felt 
many failing heart-beats, had closed many 
eyelids Avhen all AA'ork aauis done, but never 
Avithout that aAA'ful, despairing consciousness 
of human littleness Avhich knoAA's nothing of 
the hoAv or Avhy of the beginning or the end 
of life. That Avas why he Avas sad to night. 
It had been a hard day. 

From his boyhood those Avho had knoAvn 
Hugh LaiTemore best had prophesied great 
thin of him. He was more than a sue- 

O 

cessful physician in a toAvn adjacent to the 
metropolis. His books Avere knoAvn by peo- 
ple Avho had never seen him. His heart 
Avas large enough, his understanding deep 
enough, his humanity intense enough for 
more aims than one. He Avas thii’ty noAv. 
But although he had lived Avithin himself, 
and had sent the fruits of his labor into 
tlie Avorld ; though older and more experi- 
enced men in his profession Avere glad to 
meet him on equal ground, he Avas dissatis- 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


23 


fled, restless. In Ins hands there seemed 
nothino; but leaves. There Avas so ranch still 
to be clone; so little time to do it in; so 
little to do it with. 

His face was thonglitful, a little older 
than liis years. The thick, black locks just 
touched with frost, which he was in the 
habit of nervously throwing back, added to 
this impression. He was clean-shaven, and 
his expressive mouth, full and curved, but 
without a susj^icion of coai’seness, was marked 
in repose by an expression of gentle strength. 
His eyes under forceful brows were luminous 
and convincing, capable of expressing great 
fire and passion, but usually heavy with a 
dreamy pathos that expressed something of 
the deep, silent, gentle soul of the man ; one 
Avith perhaps stern ideas of justice, yet very 
impulsive, very tender. 

It had stopped raining noAV. The sky 
Avas a loAvering mass of reddish vapor, and 
the moon, plunging belnnd it, peeped out at 
intervals in a hazy circle Avith a suspicious 
and unfriendly eye. 


24 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


Larremore lifted his face to the clammy 
caress of the fog, as he strode along buttoned 
to the chin, his case of insti'uments in his 
hand. As he neared his home he raised Ids 
tired eyes and saw a light from an tipper 
window descending like a vajtorous staircase 
into the silent garden. 

“ Jenny is still up,” he thought, and then 
gave vent to a low exclamation of dismay. 
“ Oh, yes, she is waiting to scold me. This 
was the night of Mrs. Elliston’s party. She 
will say that I should have come and that I 
could have come. She will not understand. 
How very unreasonaltle women are.” 

Obeying the sort of instinct that makes 
a person take unheeded steps at tlie proper 
distances apart in a familiar neighborhood, 
he followed the liMit without nlaucing at 

O o O 

the house. But when he had unlatched and 
thrown open the door he stood still in amaze- 
ment, an expression on his face like a man 
suddenly awakened from sleep. 

This was not his home. This richly-toned 
hall, only dimly revealed in the lea|)ing fire- 



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THE OTHER HOUSE. 


25 


light, he had never seen before. Ah, yes, of 
course, he remembered now. This was the 
other house, and the mysterious tenants had 
evidently arrived. He w\as half-disposed to 
laugh at his ridiculous mistake, as he quietly 
drew back, hoping to retreat unseen. But 
this was not to be, for from the depths of a 
2’reat chair before the fii'e a woman rose 
slowly. 

“I beg your pardon,” he heard a trailing 
voice say, with a touch of impatient question- 
ing. . 

There was the crackle of a match, and 
a cluster of candles on the high mantel be- 
side her became a semicircle of twinklino; 
lig'lits. Hngli opened liis lips to make a hur- 
ried excuse, looked at her with a new inter- 
est, and remained silent. 

His mystification and embarrassment at 
his mistake were conquered by the wonder 
of her beaut)^ It dazzled and impressed 
him like some music that haunts the memory 
from the first strain until its repetition 
makes it part of oui’selves. 


26 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


He had only the vaguest idea of details, 
but after the scenes in Avhich his day had 
been spent, after deformity, ugliness, bitter- 
ness, death, this girl in her white gOAvn Avith 
the star twinkling in the fine alniudance of 
hair draAvn back from her Ioav^ bi'ow, Avas 
like an angel of light. These Avere his 

o o 

thoughts. What he said Avas quite dif- 
ferent : 

“ Pray excuse me. I live next door. I 
mistook the house.” 

She graciously nodded, a smile almost 
friendly groAAung on her lips as she continued 
to gaze at him. 

Hugh hurriedly lifted his hat and re- 
treated. 

As he AAmlked down the path and laid his 
hand upon the latch of his own gate, he felt 
that he Avas tired no longer. His body Avas 
Aveary, but somelioAV his brain seemed re- 
freshed. Only a false step tliat had brought 
him to a neAv neighl)or’s dooi', only a momen- 
tary glance into a AAmmaii’s face, and a flood 
of neAV impressions, made him glad, he could 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


27 


not define why. It was perhaps only the un- 
expected occurring in a restricted, busy life 
that captured his imagination. Or it might 
be a sense of having stood face to face with 
a woman not cut after the ordinary pattern, 
as were most of those he knew. Whoever 
she was, from whatever part of the world 
she had come to make her home beside him, 
she was very different from the other resi- 
dents of Macedon Place, and, in some indefin- 
able way, from any woman he had ever 
spoken to. 

The light was out in his own hall, but 
his dog, waiting for him on the mat, i*ose 
with a welcoming; whine and rubbed him- 

O 

self ao;ainst his master’s leo;s. 

O o 

^^Jack, old man,” and Hugh stooped to 
stroke him ; “ I’m late and tired and hun- 
gry. Good dog. Come along.” 

He hung up his coat and hat and walked 
down the hall to the dining-room. The 

O 

light was lowered to an oppressive dimness. 
The fire was a mass of gray ashes except for 
some expiring cinders. The table was set 


28 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


for a solitary supper, and in a rocker befoi'e 
the fire, her slippered feet on the fender, sat 
a young woman, her pale hair rumpled. 



streaks of tears on her cheeks, and “ Moths,” 
face downward, on her lap. 

Hugh went ovei', half stooped to kiss her, 
then drew back. He saw she was aslee]), 
and folding his arms he stood with his 






THE OTHER HOUSE. 29 

grave, gentle eyes fastened upon her face. 

How like a child she was. The tossed knot 

« 

of flaxen curls, the thin, red lips compressed 
in a grieved expression, the snub nose, the 
little folded hands, and the wrapper — or 
“ tea-gown ” as she called it — were all baby- 
ish. 

Yes, and she had fallen asleep from excess 
of weeping, he knew it, like a child that 
cries in the darkness for a toy that is with- 
held. Such a child— and his wife ! A sud- 
den tenderness crept into his eyes and he 
sighed. He pitied her as she sat there with 
her helpless little hands crossed. He had 
loved her once, or he had thought so — had 
loved her as a boy loves, for the gold iu her 
hair and the red in her lips, never questioning 
what sort of brain lay under the curls, or 
whether those little hands Avould instinctive- 
ly find and hold his in his darkest lioui's. 
And now after six years of marriage, the 
glamour that had dazzled him was gone. 
She attended to his material needs excel- 
lently, but the deeper want, the finer hunger 


30 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


of his nature, was never revealed to her. 
He worked and thouglit alone. She was 
only the head of his house and the com- 
panion of his play-time. 

And yet, had he always been as tolerant 
with her as he might have been ? Had he 
loved her enough? Poor little Jenny! 
Poor little soul ! He had disappointed her 
to-night, and not even remembered until a 
few moments ago the party on which she 
had set her heart. He wanted to kiss her, 
but it would be better to let her sleep. 

As he softly moved to touch the bell that 
communicated with the kitchen she stirred 
uneasily, rubbed her knuckles into her eyes, 
and suddenly sprang up and faced him. 

“Oh, you’ve come at last, Hugh, have 
you ? ” she said, her breath coming quickly. 
“ I want to thank you for a delightful even- 
ing — one of the very pleasantest I ever 
spent.” 

Her attempt at irony was pathetic. 

“ I’m sorry, dear,” said Hugh, in his 
sti'ong, sweet voice, going to her and endeav- 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


31 


oriug to pass his arm around her shoulder ; 

“ I’m very sorry, Jenny. I am indeed.” 

“ Sony ! Oh, yes, you always say that,” 
and she resentfully pushed away his arm. 
“You think I’m like a child, don’t you? 
Everything I want is silly, absurd. It’s 
nothing to break a promise with me, and 
then come and say you’re sorry. I’m sick of , 
it. There.” 

She stamped her foot and rang the bell 
with a nervous jerk, trembling all over. 

“They wanted me to sing, too. And you 
knew that I had that pi-pink dress made on 
purpose.” 

“ Yes, I knew it, and I meant you should 
go,” Hugh said, patiently. “ But shall I 
tell you the truth ? In the labors of this 
awful day, I completely forgot it. Come 
Jenny, can’t you see how tired I am, and 
how sorry I am, my child ? ” 

She bit her lip spitefully, and still drew 
awav from the gentle caress of his hand. 

“ You wouldn’t have forgotten, if it had 
been something you cared about yourself — 


32 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 



the Working Boys’ Club or the new Reading 
Room, or any of your prosy, outlandish 
fads. Oh, you wouldn’t have forgotten it 
then ! ” 

Did she guess how her words hurt him ? 
He looked steadily at her, and the vein be- 
tween his brows which throbbed in moments 
of deep feeling became more marked. 

“ Don’t you think so ? ” he asked, slowly 
and coldly. “ Very well, let us say no more 
about it.” 

As he ate his .supper in silence his wife 
sat with only the tip of her nose to him, and 
rocked, rocked, rocked until his brain was 
dizzy from the incessant motion. After 
glancing at her a few times and seeing her 
pretty face set in the malicious stubbornness 
from which it took her some days to I’ecovei’, 
he tried to forget it all and leave her to be- 
come reasonable herself. 

But he could not forget. Clearer than 
ever to-niglit he saw how closely together 
two people can live and still be sundered as 
the poles. Tlie thoughts on 'which lie fed 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


33 


his mental life, his aspirations, his dreams, 
would have seemed like the whisperings of a 
madman to this little woman who bore his 
name.; had he dared try to make her under- 
stand. 

But of this side of his nature she knew 
nothing. No one knew of it except, in a 
dim, wondering way, the workmen he be- 
friended, the boys to whom he became at 
once a companion and teacher. 

By and by Jenny rose, and, with a look 
around the room in which he was not in- 
cluded, swept out, banging the door after 
her. 

He was alone in the now fireless room. 
Was it only that that made him cold ? He 
sighed impatiently as he lit a cigar, and 
leaving the table for the servant, who thrust 
in her head with a sleepy query, fiung him- 
self into the chair before the grate and closed 
his eyes. 

It was some hours later when he started 
up, chilled to the marrow, the flesh on his 
forehead feeling drawn and stiff. At his 


34 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


feet lay the lialf-snioked cigar. All, lie had 
been asleep. He had dreamed that a wom- 
an all in white, with wonderful e}^es, and a 
star blazing above her brow, had held out 
her hand to him. 

Then it was only a dream. 


CHAPTER III. 


Marian frequently passed Hugh on the 
street after this, and always with a slight, 
neighborly nod. Sometimes he fancied that 
she looked at him with an awakening in- 
terest that could not fail to please him. He 
began to watch for and hope for these 
chance meetings. They were bright spots in 
long, unvarying daj^s, and gradually came to 
assume in his eyes an importance almost 
childish. 

His other neighbors gossiped and won- 
dered about her, each with his own theory 
as to her antecedents, former home, and 
social status. She was in turns the auda- 
cious young Englishwoman whose shocking 
novel had made the critics howl after the 
manner of critics ; she was some relative of 
the man who had been murdered, and, like a 
heroine of sensational romance, had returned 


30 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


to the house to search for a clew it ^vould be 
her victory to unearth, and bring the guilty 
one to a justice too long delayed; she was 
the niece or daughter of the eccentricdook- 
ing, artificially-tinted woman who lived 
with her, and who wore white lace petti- 
coats even in rainy weather ; they were both 
in hiding from somebody. To these and 
other speculations Hugh listened. His wife 
chattered endlessly of her new neighbors, and 
had taken to peering from behind the win- 
dow-curtains. 

Some people raved over the younger one’s 
beauty. Did Hugh think her so handsome ? 
She didn’t. There was style to her, to be 
sure, and a something “ princessy ” in her 
carriage and expression. She must be aw- 
fully rich, too, to wear the gowns she did. 

Hugh remarked that he thought her gowns 
simple. Oh, yes, they were simple, but a 
man did not know the difference between a 
gingham whose cut was a poem and a silk or 
velvet that didn’t cost half as much. But as 
to downright beauty — well, she was leather 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


37 ' 


good-looking — yes, certainly ; but too pale, 
too tall, and too dark to be called really 
beautiful. In fact, too much of everything 
that Jenny was not. 

‘^It’s evident that they want to keep to 
themselves. Have you noticed ? ” she asked 
one morning at breakfast ; I think they are 
dreadfully stuck up. Perhaps they think 
themselves better than the rest of us. The 
idea ! Look at Mrs. Elliston, she thought it 
would be onl)^ commonly polite to call, and 
the servant said they Avere both out, al- 
though Mrs. Elliston said she Avas sure she 
heard somebody tuning a violin. Of course, 
she left a card, but they haven’t returned 
the visit.” 

I can fancy a Avorse fate than being left 
alone,’' said Hugh, dryly, a meaning in his 
smile ; begin to think them veiy sensible.” 
Oh, of coui‘se, you Avould. Just shut 
you up in that study of yours and you are 
glad to mope. Give me a man who likes so- 
ciety ! ” and Jenny gave her head a toss; 

I’m glad I’m not cpieer.” 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 



“ Wliicli implies that I am. My dear, 
pray consider my feelings. Fancy the hor- 
ror of being called different from the other 
people about here.” • 



“ Oh, you think I don’t know what you 
mean ? You are sneering — yes, you are. 
I’m not as stupid as you think.” 

She sat back and looked at him. He was 
smiling slightly and provokingly, wliile look- 
ing over the morning })aper, not even regard- 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


39 


ins: her to see the effect of his words. Hei'e 
was an excellent chance' to assert her dignity 
and take affront. She played with hei' 
spoon -while she tried to think of something 
so sharp he would be forced to drop his air 
of indifference. 

But she could not be in a bad humor that 
morning. His peace offering for their last 
disagreement, gixeii man-like for the sake of 
dispelling an incessant frown, although he 
had thoimlit her unfeeling and unreasonable, 
was a fan tliat she had lono;ed for ever since 
her eyes noted its gossamer-like beanty in a 
Broadway window. Only that very morn- 
ing, while still in her nightgown, she had 
taken it out and coqiiettishly viewed her 
eyes in the mirror above its lacey edge. No. 
Remembering the fan, she decided it would 
be bad policy to get angry then. 

For some reason that he could not or did 
not try to explain, Larremore had never said 
anything to his wife of his unceremonious 
entree into the other house a fortnio:ht be- 
fore, and the sort of unspoken friendliness 


40 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


that liad sprang np between him and this 
beautiful young woman from nobody knew 
where. He did not even know her name, 
and he felt a disinclination to be enlightened. 
M ight not a closer acquaintance be disap- 
pointing? He preferred just her interested 
glance as she passed him on the street, her 
strange beauty that refreshed his sight each 
time, the flash of her ej^es under the delicate 
veil, the subdued wailing of her violin often 
coming to him late at night when he sat in 
his study at work on the book that was the 
latest child of his brain. 

This Avas enough. Her macjnetism 

o 

touched him only like a breath, yet gave 
color to his life. 

But Fate, in the person of Mrs. Ventnor 
suffering from persistent insomnia, sent him 
a message one day, and leaving Jenny on the 
tiptoe of expectation, he found himself once 
more in the other house. 

It hardly seemed possible that it Avas a 
counterpart of his own as far as architectuie 
AA^as concenied, so cunningly had all that 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


41 


was ugly been hidden and every corner and 
window-seat transformed. 

He remembered with more than usual dis- 
taste the pictures of fat cupids and one- 
sided goddesses that some foraier resident of 
his house had left flaring in loose splashes of 
color on its walls and panels, as if to show 
how badly a man could paint and yet re- 
joice in it. He remembered the too-bright 
rugs, the gaudy bric-a-brac with which Jenny 
had crowded their small drawing-room, and 
every one of them ‘‘ bargains.’’ 

Here was no discord. All was dainty, 
delicate, harmonious. His artistic percep- 
tion was delighted. 

At the head of the stairs, where the sun- 
light made a subdued golden haze, Marian 
was standing. She held out her hand with 
a frank smile, a critical inflection in her 
gaze. 

“ I’m very glad you’ve come,'’ she said, 
simply. 

Was he welcome as the physician only, or 
as the man ? He could not help wondering. 


42 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


“ And I am delighted to be of sei-vice,” 
letting his eyes rest eaniestly upon her. 

She was more lovely even tlian he had 
thought. Still, what did she lack ? Was it 
not the something which he had expected 
would radiate her face when she spoke and 
smiled, and so complete its charm ? There 
was a brio^ht surface lightness al)out her 
that vaguely perplexed him. It was a 
curious face that seemed at first to confide 
all the secrets of the soul beyond, l)ut elusive 
and tantalizing; the longer one looked. The 
deep eyes moving beneath the dark, thready 
lashes with a crystalline glory, spoke in one 
way; the red lips curled by a merry smile, 
in another. She was young, too, to have 
such perfect aplomb, so little enthusiasm. 
Every one of her twenty odd years had been ’ 
lived twice over, to judge by these externals. 
But had they been sad or glad or bad 
years? Hugh could not tell. 

He did not arrive at these conclusions at 
once, but during the hour he passed near 
liei’, when he carefully noted every move- 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


43 


iiieiit, every glance and word that were char- 
acteristic. 

Mrs. Ventnor proved an entertaining pa- 
tient. Nothing troubled her, she said, but 
wakeful nights, and this was not surprising 
when Huo;h leai’ned with what delicacies 
she gorged herself at midnight. 

She thanked Heaven she was not hlase. 
It was not ennui that kept her staring at the 
ceiling when the rest of the world slept. 

One of De Maupassant’s or Belot’s, a bou- 
quet of lilies, an easy chair, a cigarette, and — 
there I am. Perfectly content ! ” she exclaim- 
ed, with an expansive, assuring wave of her 
white hands, laden down with splendid rings. 

‘^You are to be envied, perhaps,” and 
Mrs. Ventnor, for all her sloth and good- 
nature, was not slow to catch the slight chill 
in his tone as he turned his eyes from her 
and looked at Marian. 

Ah ! his attention now was a different 
thing altogether. 

“ And you ? ” he asked, with his endearing 
smile. Are you so easily satisfied ? ” 


u 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


Her very attitude and expression Avere a 
lain^uid denial. Slie liad nestled amon^ tlie 

o o 

multitudinous pillows of a gold-colored di- 
van, her negligent pose leaving exposed a 
quantity of tiny h^ce ruffles and a shapely 
foot in the most frivolous of russet slippers. 

On the contrary,” Avdth a slow move- 
ment of her eyes, I am the most restless, 
the most discontented, creature in the Avorld. 
Nothing pleases me long.” 

Her glance sought his Acith a troubled 
question that reminded him of a child 
struggling Avith a probleiu. 

“ I Avonder Avhy I don’t like things, Doc- 
toT' Larremore ? I am not tired of myself. 
I am not unhappy, but, oh, the Avorld seems 
to offer so little.” 

Which means that you are beginning to 
Aveary of your pretty hermitage, your latest 
fad, so soon. Ah ! didn’t I say you AA^ould ? 
Didn’t I ? ” said Mrs. Ventnor, AAdth a tri- 
umphant chuckle. 

Marian gave an impatient sigh and leaned 
forward, her liands clasping her knees. 



u 


?) 


HER VERY ATTITUDE AND EXPRESSION WERE A LANGUID DENIAL 







THE OTHER HOUSE, 


45 


Yes, I confess it. I am not exactly tired 
of this place yet, but I feel that I will be 
soon. Where I expected peace and perfect 
freedom I have only boredom. The one 
thing that never fails me is my fiddle, but 
one cannot fiddle it all day.’’ 

A sturdy impatience swept through Larre- 
more as he listened. He fancied himself 
with her wealth and independence able to 
follow the now unsatisfied ambition that, ow- 
ing to the limitations of his life, sometimes 
tore him with impotent frenzy. And this 
girl did not know what to do with her idle 
days. Was she mentally maimed, or only 
vain, indolent, and selfish? She seemed to 
understand these thoimhts from his atten- 

o 

tive, puzzled gaze and a faint color crept 
into her cheek, a grain of defiance into her 
eyes. 

“ You are rich, are you not ? ” he asked, 
brusquely. 

“ She has three times more money than she 
requires to be extravagant with. She spends 
as much in a month on toilet waters and 


4G 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


flowers as would support a mecliaiiic’s family 
in comfort,” asserted Mi‘s. Ventnor. 

The words hurt him. He thought of 
wretched women and little children who 
looked at him with hollow eyes during his 
visits to the poor. He thought of the curse 
life was to some, and the cry for bread, to 
which he had so often listened with aching 
heart, came surging to liis ears, a wild denun- 
ciation against the wanton heedlessness that 
could so shut out the cry of the despairing. 

Her beauty no longer softened him. * He 
felt it would not l)e impossible to hate her. 

“ Have you no talent to cultivate ? ” he 
asked her. 

These hands can’t do anything but play 
the fiddle. But I have not patience enough 
to make myself a complete mistress of it.” 
You might travel,” and his flexible voice, 
that had so many shades of tone, told her he 
was beginning to disapprove of her. 

^‘Travel!” she echoed, lightly, bent, on 
provoking him and letting her lids fall with 
a saucy affectation of weariness ; I have 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


47 


travelled. When you have done much of that, 
one place is as dull as another. The brick 
and mortar of cities are much alike, and a life 
beyond the pale of civilization is not to my 
taste, which is, alas, so thoroughly artificial.” 

Then why not lose yourself in a life of 
pleasure ? Selfish, of course, but absorbing. 
Frankly, you have made a mistake in seeking 
monotony here. If your mind and heart are 
utterly empty they will feed upon themselves.” 
A little maid entered with tea and set it 
out on a low Turkish table beside the divan. 

That’s right. Doctor Larremore,” said 
Mrs. Ventnor as she held out her hand to re- 
ceive a cup from Marian; ^^give it to her 
soundly. Send her back.” 

Hugh was amazed at the spasm of petu- 
lant pain that marred the soft beauty of the 
girl’s face. 

If I die from sheer vacuity, I’ll never do 
that,” she said in a fierce, low tone. You’ll 
have some tea, won’t you ? ” she added, for- 
mally, then sprang up and going to the win- 
dow let in a flood of sunshine. 



48 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


“ Mercy, my complexion ! But there — you 
have no pity,” and with a resigned air Mrs. 
Ventnor grasped a hand-screen. 

Hugh rose to go. As he did so Marian 
turned and looked appealingly at him. 

“We have kept you too long? ” she asked. 
“ You think me a butterfly, you think me a 
useless cumberer of the earth. I don’t blame 
you. Yet, since society does not satisfy me, 
I am not quite hopeless, am I ? Perhaps you 
are a little curious about us. We lived 
among a literary and artistic set in New 
York, many of them Bohemians of the most 
pronounced type. I was one of them, be- 
cause I, too, was a dabbler in the arts. I ac- 
complished nothing. The loose ends of half 
a dozen of my good-for-nothing aims ai'e 
scattered through this house. Enough of 
that. Regard me, please, as an interesting 
failure.” 

She looked frankly into his eyes and held 
out her hand. 

“I like you. Doctor Larremore. You cure 
diseases of the body. Cure my mental ail- 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


49 


meiit, whatever it is. Shall I diagnose my 
own case for you, as I understand it ? ” 

Her face, now gay and slightly mutinous, 
won him again. If she was heartless, she 
was at least original. 

“Let me hear it by all means,’’ he said, 
eagerly. 

“ It is that I have no reverence for any- 
thing, no love for anyone. Home ties wei*e 
broken long ago. Nobody is necessary to 
me. I miss nothing, I prize nothing. Now, 
if you could only give me a purpose. Oh, 
if you only could.” 

He was a straimer, and she was askiru^ 

O' o 

him to help her. How Hugh’s heart warmed 
at the thought. Then the sympathy he had 
felt with her must be reciprocal. 

She felt his hand close more surely on 
hers, and he spoke from his heart. 

“ Put yourself where the humanity that 
lies dormant in you may be quickened. 
Spend some of your money on charity ! ” he 
said, his fine eyes lighting. “ If you only 
knew what life really means. The ‘ old 


50 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


pain of earth ’ is terribly real. You are 
free to do as you please. You are wealthy. 
You have run the gamut of fashionable 
pleasure. Nothing tenipts you. Try and 
see how it feels to live a little for othei’s. I 
don’t want to preach, and I’m not advising 
self-immolation, you understand. My own 
life means too much to me to believe in that. 
But since you have no aim” — he paused, 
and the magnetism of his glance thrilled her 
with a new enthusiasm — “ see, if only for a 
new sensation, how it feels to ease one life 
of pain. The days won’t seem so long, I 
promise, nor life so useless then.” 

When he had reached the door he turned 
suddenly, with his boyish smile. 

“ You have not told me your name.” 

“ Marian Trent.” 

“I’ll be glad to bring my wife to see you, 
if you like.” 

“ Yes, bring her,” she said, absently, and 
then added, with a soft assurance : “We are 
to be friends, Doctor Lari-emore.” 

The words followed him through the day. 


CHAPTER IV. ^ 


She did all he advised : spent her money 
for the poor, until many blessed her name ; 
gave him a scrap of paper, signed by her, 
that meant thousands, to equip the Free 
Reading Rooms ; went to a meeting of the 
Working Roys’ Club and listened to the 
hoarse voices sending up a cheer as she en- 
tered. She did all this and more, and the 
thought that haunted her was : 

“ I give them what I do not need. They 
are nothing to me.” 

The old want pursued her. While she 
gave freely, she stood apart. Mrs. Ventnor 
watched the new fever throiii^h all its de- 
grees until it subsided and finally died out. 
As usual she laughed, patted Marian under 
the chin, suggested a trip to Florida, Europe, 
anywhere, which was promptly refused, then 
began a new novel, and in the smoke of a 


52 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


cigarette completely forgot the vagaries of 
lier charge. 

But in Marian’s heart a force was gi’adu- 
ally developing, whose power was as yet un- 
known to herself. The weai'iness of her life 
had caused- her intervals of impatience often 
l)efore ; now it caused her pain. She saw 
Larremore and his wife constantly, and liked 
the one as much as she detested the other. 

Poor Jenny’s gush over her visitor’s 
delicate gowns and her pai'ade of a second- 
hand knowledge of society people gleaned 
from New York papers depressed Marian 
horribly. 

One day in particular, when she went in 
to return a book Hugh had lent her, Mrs. 
Larremore filled in the time with vapid 
chit-chat and shrill laughter, and Marian 
returned home incredibly disgusted and 
angry. 

“ Married to such a woman ! ” she ex- 
claimed, throwing her hat do^vn and im- 
patiently lifting the hair from her heated 
forehead. “ A compilation of vanity and 


TEE OTHER HOUSE, 


53 


idiocy. He should have a wife who would 
be both his prime minister and sweetheart.” 
Mrs. Ventnor regarded her ^vith mild dismay. 

I sized up that young woman the first 
time she opened her lips. Surely you are 
not surprised. Heavens, that’s the way 
with men ! The wisest of them are fools. 
Brains never do half as much for a woman 
as a supei'flcial brightness, though this one 
hasn’t even that. Sympathy, soul, or what- 
ever you ai*e pleased to call it, never goes 
half as far in the marriage market as a pair 
of pouting lips or a neat ankle. I know a 
man — he’s in the Senate now — he has a great, 
bulging forehead crammed with all the ’olo- 
gies, and he told me he had fallen in love 
with his wife because she was ^ cute.’ Of 
course, this sort of fascination dies soon, and 
the man awakens to the fact that he has tied 
himself hand and foot to a fool — a pretty 
woman to show off the gowns he pays for 
— ^but a fool. That’s exactly what your 
young friend has done, my dear.” 

I wonder what attracted him, or if the 


54 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


gods made liim both deaf and blind when 
she crossed his path.” 

“ Oh, no, dear me, no. They probably 
grew up together, went to the same Sunday- 
school no doubt. Sunday-schools are re- 
sj>onsible for some very incompi’ehensible 
marriages. Then — she has a dimple.” 

“ True, I forgot the dimple.” 

“ Depend upon it he praised that dimple 
during their courtship, or she’d never 
stpieeze her lips so hard to make it appear, 
and keep that side of her face on view as 
she does. Yes,” as she selected a cigarette, 
“ I’m afraid it was the dimple.” 

After this Marian avoided Mrs. Larremore 
whenever it Avas possible, and perhaps it 
was not oidy chance that made her happen 
upon Hugh late one April afternoon as he 
came down the steps of the reading-room, 
Avhere he had stopped on his way home. 

As he saw her coming toAvard him, a 
straiofht, slender figure clad all in liaflitest 
g]‘ay against the background of young 
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THE OTHER HOUSE. 


55 


felt again, as on that first night, the stealing 
strength of the charm emanating from hei‘, 
the evasive something — was it in the long, 
slow smile, the bi'ight, dreaming eyes, the 
tendrils of dark hair on the whiteness of her 
temples and neck, or the suppleness of mo- 
tion displayed in her walk ? And her gowns 
— he had never before noticed a woman’s 
clothes — but hers clung to her, following the 
lines of her figure with such obedient grace, 
making little flapping folds about her as she 
stepped along lightly, easily. 

It was all of these — nay, it was more — it 
was a something deeper — it was everything 
that made her herself. 

Hugh dismissed his gig and walked on 
with her. 

“ I’m glad I met you,” she said in a voice 
that struck him as formal. “ Thei’e is some- 
thing I want to tell you.” 

“ Not that you are going away ? ” he 
asked, quickly, and then wondered at the 
feeling of incomparable loss that suddenly 
made his heart heavy. 


56 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


She was silent for a moment before turn- 
ing her head, the sunset glitter through the 
budding trees that lined the street filling her 
eyes with splendor. 

“ Would you be sorry if I did ? ” 

“Yes.” He spoke clearly, meeting her 
gaze directly. 

The instinQt of the practised coquette 
made her look for a something in his eyes 
left unexpressed by his lips. She looked in 
vain. 

“ But you would be rid of a very unsatis- 
factory neighbor.” 

“ I do not think so. I have enjoyed 
knowing you more than I can say. Be- 
sides,” he added, almost joyously, “ you 
hav^e been good to my boys.” 

She moved her hand impatiently. 

“ Don’t speak of that. I have given my 
money. I denied myself nothing to do 
this.” 

“ But don’t deciy the pleasure it gave you 
to make them happy,” he said, softly. 
“ That was a great deal.” 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


57 


Slie threw back her head, and laughed with 
a weary inflection. 

“ It gave me no pleasure,” she said, shortly ; 
‘‘ that is wdnat I wanted to tell you.” 

‘^Then why did you do it?” and the 
question had a suddenness that startled her. 

Because you told me to. You said if I 
were good to the poor my life would no 
longer be the meaningless thing it is. I 
grasped at the suggestion, as I have grasped 
at others. Well ? ” — she held out her empty 
hands — “ I have done all you said, and I am 
no better than I was. I don’t love the poor 
as you do. They seem far away from me. 
I don’t think I really pity them. They seem 
different from me. Let them have some of 
my money, a little of my time, if it does them 
any good. It does me none.” 

Her smile was ambiguous. She made him 
feel ill at ease with himself. The atmos- 
phere of metropolitan frivolity about her was 
never plainer than as she spoke these curt 
words, and for a brief moment they paled his 
life and its aims, making it appear a miser- 


58 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


able thing indeed. In the conversation that 
ensued it seemed as if she purposely tried to 
pain him. His defence and argument wei’e 
toni to bits by a sprightly but scathing ildi- 
cule he had never before heard fi-om her 
lips. She was merry and sharp at his ex- 
pense. Nothing was too serious for a pass- 
ing jest, and her laughter, with more scorn 
than mirth in it, left his heart a little sore. 

And all this time she narrowly Avatched 
him, although he did not guess it. As his 
face grew pale and disheartened, her heart 
grew wilfully lighter. He liked her suffi- 
ciently to be huid by her railleiy ? She could 
pain him ? Oh, she Avasglad of it. She had 
attracted and held many men, but not one 
like him — this man of heart and conscience. 
It was a moment of sweetest triumph. 

Hugh was relieved when at last they 
turned into Macedon Place. The naively 
earnest friend who had entei'ed so thoroughly 
into his Avork had departed, and in her stead 
there was a stranger Avith cold, laughing eyes, 
Avho mocked at everything. 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


59 


He bad liked the other more than he had 
known. 

‘‘Then, since everything here is so intensely 
wearisome to you,” he said, rapidly, when her 
gate was reached, “ and since the stimulus I 
suggested has failed, I suppose you will go 
away ? ” 

“ I suppose so. But there is a last favor 
you can do me. Suggest where to go.” 

“ No, you would only laugh,” and he gave 
hei’ one reproachful glance. I am sure I 
never could select a spot that would fulfil 
your many and unique requirements.” 

Her face grew preternaturally grave. 

“ Now, don’t be angry because I can only 
care for newsboys at a distance.” 

‘‘No, I am not angry, but I am sorry to 
have failed so signally.'' 

A smile that was alluring, irresistible, lit 
up her beautiful eyes. 

Perhaps you have not failed so sig- 
nally as you think. Women, you know, 
are prone to exaggerate eveiy thing. We 
are diplomates, too. We know that men are 


60 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


apt to scofE at women who take them too 
seriously.” 

“ What wonderful experience — what sa- 
gacity ! ” said Hugh, with an attempt at re- 
taliation. 

“ Yes, and more than that, they take with 
most flattering seriousness the women who 
scoff at them.” 

She held out her hand — a white, capable 
hand, the gi’eat opal shimmering on the lit- 
tle Anger seeming to hav^e imprisoned the 
milky pink of the evening sky above them, 

“ Will you run in to-night ? ” 

He wanted to go, but he hesitated, and 
Anally, on the plea of work, refused, 

“Work, work, work. It is more to you 
than anything in the woild,” and there was 
a touch of bitterness in the soft, low tones. 
“ What is friendship or the chatter of an idle 
woman compared with it ? And you are 
right. Ah, be happy, my friend, that you 
have that which can absorb you, to the ex- 
clusion of everything else.” 

He went from her with the feeling that he 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


61 


had left miicli unsaid. And yet what could 
he say ? She ^v^as an enigma he was as yet 
j)owerless to solve. 

As he walked up the path he saw Jenny 
looking from the window. She turned away 
abruptly, but not before he saw she had been 
weeping. 

Mrs. Larremore was one of those w^omen 
who never shirk tears or their traces. She 
let them roll in a slow procession down her 
cheeks, and when they blistered her nose 
and swelled her eyelids she looked glad 
of it. 

What was the use of being miserable if all 
the world didn’t know of it ? As to sobbing, 
she had reduced it to a fine art. Huo:h often 
thought a great emotional actress had been 
lost in his wife, the supply of her lachrymal 
glands was so inexhaustible and responded 
so easily to her call. 

She was sobbing now as he entered the 
house. He could not control the slight 
smile that lingered for a second on his lips as 
he went toward her, wondering if it were an 


62 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


ill-fitting gown this time or if she had cut her 
bang too short. 

“ What’s the trouble, little woman ? Dear 
me ! what a quantity of tears. What are they 
all about ? ” 

With brisk sympathy he drew a chair to 
her side and laid his hand on hers. She 
pushed him a\vay and rose with an attempt 
at intense scorn. 

“ Matter enough ! How dare you ask me 
what’s the matter ? Oh ! I Avish mamma 
Avere here,” and she collapsed again. 

Any effect her Avords might have had Avas 
sjAoiled by the intensely comic lustre of her 
nose, and her pale eyes seemed to have re- 
ti’eated into little pink caA^erns under her 
brows. 

Hugh looked at her helplessly. She was 
enraged at something — but Avhat ? He could 
think of nothing he had done to Avarrant her 
reproaches, and so Avaited in silence for the 
charge. 

“ Yes, you do Avell to say nothing more,” 
she cried out, suddenly. “ Asking me what’s 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


63 


the matter, indeed. Hugh Larremore, do you 
think me blind? Have I no feelings as a 
^vife ? Oh, it didn’t require Mrs. Elliston or 
Mrs. Mabie to show me the turn affairs w^ere 
taking. I have my private opinion of some 
people, and I knew how it would be from 
the first.” 

Did you ? ” asked Hugh, with intense 
weariness, rising and walking a little w^ay 
from her. Then perhaps you’ll let me know 
too. What do you mean ? I am completely 
in the dark as to what you are driving at.” 

A triumphant malice lit up Jenny’s eyes 
and she went close to him, her small hands 
clenched. 

I mean that you are in love with that girl 
next door,” came slowly, fiercely from be- 
tween her quivering lips ; I mean that she’s 
been leading you on. What is she, anyhow ? 
We don’t know anything about her. But 
she’s making a fool of you, and a jest of 
me. You are parading your infatuation to 
the whole town. I Avon’t stand it.” 

Then somethin^: in his look made her draw 

O 


64 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


back. She liad been prepai'ed for denial, for 
ridicule, for anger, but not for that deadly 
pallor that slowly settled on his face until it 



was like a marble mask, not for that fire in 
his eyes under which she felt herself grow hot 
with shame. 

“ Well — well — isn’t it true ? ” she trem- 
blingly asked, trying not to be frightened. 

“ Come here.” 


\ 




THE OTHER HOUSE. 


65 


He held out his liands with a gesture she 
dared not disobey. He drew her close to him 
and roughly, and looked into her abashed 
face. 

“ You have said something it will be hard 
for me to forgive.” 

Then his expression changed convulsively 
and he looked past her, an abrupt, angiy 
laugh breaking from his lips. 

“ It is a lie ! There is not a vestige of 
truth in it — a lie — do you hear ? — a lie ! ” 
and he went away. 

In his study, with the door closed upon 



the world, he sat down at his desk and 
tried to write. But it was impossible. 


66 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


The place had grown stifling, his heai't was 
beating to the verge of sufFocation, and an 
unconquerable desire to get out under the 
sky, into space, light, and air made him 
seize his hat at last, and, stepping over the 
low threshold of the window into the gar- 
den, take the path that led into the country. 

He walked rapidly until the limits of 
the town were reached, and stretches of 
young grass broken by the turnings of a 
railroad track took the place of houses and 
shops. The distant puffing of a train 
sounded through the soft, spring evening, 
and the oft-recurring tinkle of a bell from 
a home-going cow. 

He was alone in the twilight, but the 
peace he craved would not come. His heart 
^vas on fire. Questions came crowding on 
him that filled him wnth feai“. The words 
his wife had spoken rang in his ears, and his 
answer : 

“ It is a lie ! ” 

It was. It must be. But still a turbulent 
unrest chilled him and made him sad. 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


67 


He had always held that the man who 
was incapable of friendship with a woman 
w^as contemptible, and now when the germ 
of an unalterable friendship for Marian had 
taken root in his life, would he not believe it 
still ? It was a bitter-sw^eet, half-welcome 
fascination that made him wish to serve her. 
There was some pity in the feeling, too ; a 
great deal of admiration ; but most of all, in 
spite of her many moods, a sympathy with 
her that filled his life. But it was friend- 
ship, nevertheless, and he would not renounce 
it for all the gossips in the town. When, 
despite his reasoning, his heart gave a wild 
thi'ob of warning, he would not believe. He 
had confidence in himself. The women who 
chatted to Jenny were beneath his anger. 
Jenny was a quick-tempered, suspicious, un- 
reasonable little goose. How Marian would 
despise them all if she knew of it. 

Marian. A sweet name ; a woman with 
fire and sweetness, brain and heart. Her 
1‘estless, indomitable spirit craving constant 
change, was an encouraging proof of the 


68 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


existence of the soul that would some day be 
quickened to a fuller meaning of life. Be- 
neath all her frivolity he could read this. 

%/ 

If he helped her, if they iinderstood and 
liked each other, was it ^vrong, merely be- 
cause she was a young and beautiful woman, 
he a man ? 

He had never tried to adjust his life to 
suit the restrictions of the people around 
him, who measured their neighbors by a 
narrow moral foot-rule of their own. Why 
should he now, because a thoughtless charge 
had startled him from a dream to a fancied, 
half-awakened sense of danorer ? 

o 

A strong gust of wind in his face and a 
raindrop as large as a bullet roused him 
from his absorbing introspection. He looked 
around in wonder. The tinted evening sky 
was obscured by clouds like large, black 
scrolls melting furiously together. The west, 
that he had last consciously seen bathed in a 
lambent purple, was now a lurid shifting 
yellow, and a Avind leaped from the hills 
sweeping a thousand eddying trifles before 


69 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 

it, and bending trees until they crashed and 
swayed, like an army of giants threatening 
mutiny. In a moment the landscape was 
swallow^ed up in storm and darkness. 

It was like the l)reath of passion descend- 
ing on a quiet, sunny, self-sustained life and 
sweeping all before it, blotting out beauty, 
triumphant in tossing broken hopes and re- 
solves as heedlessly as the wind tossed the 
leaves. After his aggressive inw^ard assur- 
ances of his own strength, it came upon 
Larremore like the shock of a discordant 
laugh. 

^^Fool ! ” the wdnd shrieked, and wdien he 
reached home, his face white, he heard it 
still in the shrilly gusts that shook the win- 
dows as if clamoring for admission. 





CHAPTER V. 


The splendor of early June had come, 
azure mornings that made one drunk with 
the joy of living, long crystal days that sank 
bewitchingly into the peace of twilight, and 
the magic of starlit nights. 

Since that walk with Marian, more than a 
month before, the days had been busy and 
anxious for Hugh. A life that he had saved 
in one of the prison hospitals as if by a mir- 
acle, but really through a bold and startling 
operation, had crowned him with moi’e 
newspaper celebrity than was pleasant to a 
man of his reticent nature. 

The crucial surgical ■work, though beset 
with drawbacks, had brought its own com- 
pensation. It had engrossed his thoughts 
and taken him out of himself, until success- 
fully finished. Tlien a medical journal of 
highest standing honored him by asking for 


THE OTllEU no USE. 


71 


a paper describing liis treatment in detail. 
He was becoming a personage in the medical 
world, and the sale of his books had mark- 
edly increased. 

Jenny commenced to talk of a house in 
New York, not on the outskirts of Harlem, 
where hei* mother kept a boarding-house, 
but on the crest of Murray Hill. Her man- 
ner grew a little chilly to her old acquaint- 
ances as their friendly warmth increased, 
and her most delightful hours were spent in 
pasting the newspaper clippings referring to 
Hugh in an enormous scrap-book previously 
devoted to toilet-recipes and fashion-plates. 

In these days of early June there came a 
period of rest for him. The lassitude of 
summer was beginning to be felt. He had 
time to think, and his first thoimht was of 
Marian ; a regret for their past friendship. 
He seldom saw her now, although Jenny had 
repented of her jealousy, and they continued 
on visiting terms. 

She seemed to have withdrawn from him 
no less surely than he had from her. Larre- 


72 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


more was not vain enoimh to believe her 

O 

attitude only the result of the one he had 
adopted. 

To be accused wrongfully of a fault is 
very often, to an impulsive nature, only an- 
other Avay of being led by the neck to com- 
mit it. But Jennie’s taunt had come to 
him just a little too late for this rashness. 
After that hour’s self-communing, he had 
seen that the accusation, at first in all sincer- 
ity denied, contained one little grain of 
truth. 

That Avas all oA^er uoaa^ With the ac- 
knoAvledgment of possible danger had come 
the honest instinct to draAV aside, and he 
stood acquitted before his heart. 

One Avarm eveninof after dinner he sat in 
his study, an untasted cup of coffee beside 
him, an unlit cigar l)etween his fingers. The 
toAvn seemed more than usually quiet. The 
light, although it AAras eight o’clock, died 
sloAAdy in the Avest. Even the sparroAvs that 
had chattered the livelong day had everyone 
gone to rest. Jenny had complained of feel- 


TUE OTHER HOUSE. 


73 


ing languid after a day’s shopping in New 
York, and in a white wrapper lay fast 
asleep on a lounge near him. 

Once he sighed, and over his deep-colored 
eyes a gloom fell. A moment’s moody trans- 
port of disillusion touched his heart and 
stirred it to a discontent that necessarily 
came hand in hand with resignation. A 
sadaess born of the oppressive quiet and the 
dav’s slow wanincf held him. 

All was so still, so still. 

The postman came up the walk and 
handed him a letter through the open win- 
dow. It was in a small, thin envelope that 
crackled as he touched it, and was crowded 
with postmarks. He held it nervelessly for 
a second, looking at the small, angular letter- 
insr. 

o 

“ Dear old fellow,” he said, softly, and 
opened it. 

It was dated from a town in Persia, and in 
its curious journey had passed through 
stranger hands than is the fate of most let- 
ters. 


74 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


“Coming borne,” said Hugh, his face 
l^rightening. “ ‘ Will leave a week after post- 
ing this. Health impaired.’ Ah, yes. ‘ Too 
many missionaries, not enough work.’ Inde- 
fatigable as ever, dear old Mark. ‘ But 
will only rest for a little while before going 
on to the leper settlement at Molokai.’ Yes, 
and kill yourself in a year. God ! to choose 
a fate like that ! ” 

He read on in silence. 

“ How he enthuses over it. What a man ! 
An idealist, a fanatic, with a heart of gold, 
the purity and faith of a child.” 

He turned the letter over and lovingly 
fingered it, then uttered an exclamation of 
surprise. It had been delayed for nearly a 
month, and smelled of sea- water. 

“ He should be here by this if he left when 
he intended, unless he met Avith more ad- 
ventures than his letter and more serious 
ones. I’ll have Jenny get his room ready to- 
night. It AAmuld be like him to come from 
Persia and pull the bell at midnight, as if he 
had just turned the corner. Ah, dear old 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


75 


man ! To see yon again — liow good it will 
be.” 

Ten years liad j:)assed since this man said 
good-by to him. Hugh was then a lad of 
twenty, just out of college, and in the first 
stage of his love affair with pretty Jenny 
Walton. 

How well he remembered the morning the 
ship sailed away, the haze that came over 
the sunlight making it necessary for him to 
wink liis eyes very hard. How well he re- 
membered, and how dear the memory was ! 

Mark Thorne had been his father’s friend, 
and when Hugh was left an orphan, had 
taken his father’s place. No one could have 
loved him better or have helped him more. 

He sighed as he threw the letter into a 
drawer. Oh, if he were but here now ! 

Dreaming ? ” asked a low voice at his 
elbow. 

He turned with a start. Marian stood 
just outside the window. She wore a thin, 
white gown. A big hat cast a shadow over 
her eyes. Her lips were daintily parted. 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 



We were returning from a drive, France 
and I, and passing, I saw you here. If I 
disturb you, send me away.” 

This Avuth a saucy smile, as she leaned her 
slioulder comfortably against the side of the 
window and turned her face to him. 

It Avas lono; since he had heard those 

O 

sw'eet, discontented tones. 

“ I would ask you to come in, but — ” and 
lie glanced toward Jenny, who still slept 
heavily. 

Marian lifted her brows as she peered into 
the increasiuff fifloom. 

“ I’ll go away, then. I see my coming is 
onalajyrojtos. Or — will you come out here if 
you are not busy ? ” 

He stepped into the garden, where the sun 
shot his waning orange lances between the 
trees. 

“ How long the light lasts these days. 
There is something uncanny about this yel- 
low glitter.” 

He could think of nothing better to say 
to her. It was like becoming newly ac- 


V 



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THE OTHER HOUSE, 


77 


quainted. Without reply Mai'ian led the 
way to a garden seat and sat down. 

There was a pause for a brief space, then 
she said, abruptly and curiously : 

You have avoided me. Why ? Did 
you give me up because I was flippant ? Or 
is there some other reason ? ” 

Hugh felt himself flush uncomfortably, 
but her face was hidden now by the flap- 
ping brim of her hat as she toyed with the 
bunch of syringa blossoms she carried. 
Their sweet, heady fragrance rose in a love- 
inspiring incense and affected him like the 
swino; of a sensuous tune. 

He gave a quick, short laugh to hide the 
feeling in his voice he could not quite con- 
trol. 

Perhaps I was afraid you would vote me 
pi’osy with all the other failures.” 

You know better than to think that,” 
said Marian, very softly, her eyes heavy with 
reproach. But never mind. I will not 
ask you why your interest in me died. I 
prefer to believe it was for no deeper reason 


78 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


than that you were hard-worked, and I 
in New York for days at a time buying 
clothes.” 

When she spoke again the old bitterness 
was in her voice. 

“We are all dreadfully self-sufficient. 
Nothing after all — much as we may fancy we 
pi'ize it — nothing is really indispensable 
save money. I was surprised that I did not 
miss my chats with you more.” 

“ 1 am surprised that you missed them at 
all,” he said, gravel}^ Slie flashed a glance 
at him that was almost angry. 

“ I leave here shortly. Mi's. Ventnor goes 
to Newport in a few days. I join her later. 
Where are you going ? ” 

“ I may go for a good bit of swimming and 
a week’s fishing ofl; Cape Cod, some time in 
August. I have not thought much about it.” 
She rose slowly, shook out her fleecy 
di *ess, and gave him a long, earnest look. 

You are not cut out for an idler, Doctor 
Larremore. But you should take a long 
lioliday. Your eyes are too worn even for 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


79 


such a grave student of human life and its 
23roblems,” 

‘^You think so? Perhaps I shall take 
your advice.” 

He Avalked down to the gate with her in 
silence. It was almost dark now. Komantic 
couples strolled by engrossed with each 
other. From a nei 2 :hborino!: street the liio;!! 

o o o 

voices of children singing a ring song came 
plaintively to their ears. 

There was ecstasy to Hugh in the beauty 
of the night. The breath of the flowers, 
Marian’s low tones, his sense of her nearness, 
stirred the poetry in his nature to its depths. 
They were silent. But speech would only 
have jarred the enfolding, serene delight of 
the twilight. 

Suddenly he remembered Mark’s coming, 
and asked, impulsively : 

“ You like to meet all sorts of people, 
don’t you ? ” 

Just as some people collect books. 
Some are labelled heavj^, some light, some 
trashy, and some odd.” 


80 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


“ Have you given me a place in that col- 
lection ? ” and there was a playful menace 
in his voice. 

“ Yes,” with sudden seriousness ; “ you ai‘e 
in a very sombre cover, but wondei’ful truths 
one cannot forget are gleaned from you.” 

“ That’s very good of you,” said Hugh, 
with a pleased laugh ; “ but I can’t see your 
face to know if you are in earnest. Now, 
in a day or two I want to introduce a man 
to you, different from any you know. 
Among your collection I dare say he will 
look very uninviting. The cover will not 
only be sombre, but pitifully worn ; but the 
pages will read like the throbbing of a hu- 
man heart.” 

“You make me curious. Who is he? ” 
“A missionary. Mark Thorne. He has 
spent ten years in Persia.” 

A low laugh that startled him came to 
him out of the shadows. 

“ A missionary ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ It will indeed be refreshing. I have 

o 



•NVWK'T’’ 








v\\«V 




“are you religious?’^ 




THE OTHER HOUSE. 


81 


never known one. Fetch him and your wife 
to dine with me if he arrives before I go.” 
She gave him her hand, and then, as if she 
had forgotten that fact, but of which he re- 
mained intensely conscious, paused to ask 
one more question. 

It h as just occurred to me that you have 
never spoken of religion. Are you relig- 
ious? ” she asked, a shade in her voice, as if 
her brows wei*e lifted. 

I have no religion — at least not what 
most people would call a religion. I have 
my own blind yearnings after that great 
something I would fain kneel before. I have 
not found it yet. But as I search for. it in 
vain I receive enough light from the invisi- 
ble source to guide my steps.” 

^^And what does it show you?” came 

softly from the shadow of the big hat. 

I can only follow its truths very imper- 
fectly. But I know that a man’s honor is his 
soul’s nourishment, that it is right to help as 

well as I can all those I meet who need it, 
and — ” he paused doubtfully. 



82 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


“ Hugh ! ” rang pettishly from the house. 

The shrill voice came like a false note 
among rich, sweet chords. 

“ Finish,” said Marian, and she came a 
little nearer, her head thrown imperative- 
ly back so that hei‘ brilliant eyes, with the 
spell of a sorceress in them, mastered him 
strangely. 

Her hand nestled closer in his. His heart 
beat fast. 

“ And to avoid temptation,” he said, 
cleai’ly. 

There was something disdainful in the 
way her fingers left his loosening hold, and 
she laughed unpleasantly. 

“ Then it is a creed for men, not saints, 
after all? Good-night, your wife is calling 
you.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


A TALL, round-sliouldered man, in a long, 
gray coat, opened Hugh’s gate the next 
morning'. 

o 

the missionary. I’ll send Dr. Larre- 
more a note to remind him of his promise 
to brins: him to dinner to-ni2:ht. It will be 

O o 

a lark ; ” and Marian turned from the win- 
dow to Mrs. Ventnor, enjoying her look of 
horror ; you’ll have to forego your after- 
dinner cigarette for once, dear.” 

Not a bit of it. If you will gather such 
absurdities about you, count me out. I’ll 
smoke as usual or dine in my room.” 

‘‘You would not be so rude nor so un- 
fair,” Marian insisted, passing her hand in 
^ood-humored etfrontery over Mrs. Vent- 
no i*’s face ; “ and you won't smoke to-night 
either — to please me.” 


84 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


It was tlie remembrance of this little talk 
that made Mrs. Ventnor’s chubby face wear 
an aggrieved expression as she shook hands 
with the Reverend Mark Thorne that night. 
On second thoughts, however, she decided 
tliere was nothing terrible about him. He 
looked ill, but he had a nice smile and voice, 
and to her relief did not begin dinner by 
leading in prayer. More than that, he had a 
good, ringing laugh and a keen sense of hu- 
mor. Indeed, he was not at all a formida- 
ble person. Marian was a closer observer. 
In spite of his unexpected light-heartedness 
she read the rigor, the intense zeal of the 
man’s devotional nature. His features had 
the pinched, bloodless look of the ascetic, 
and in his large, near-sighted eyes a gi’eat 
enthusiasm burned. 

He treated Hugh like a son. His deep 
love for him was undisguised as a child’s. 

She found an intense charm in listening to 
his gentle, inspiriting voice. 

Of Persia, from a traveller’s stand-point, 
he talked delightfully, and he Avas persuaded 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


85 


to speak of the purpose which had brought 
him back. 

Toward that dark island in the Pacific, 
where men and women writhed under a fleshly 
curse that could not be wholly lifted, his face 
was turned with a smile. His reading of duty 
was astounding in its pure unselfishness. 

Marian was compelled by contrast to 
tliink of the purposeless, extravagant, vicious 
lives of the men she had known in New 
York, and here at her board was a man of 
flesh and blood like them, but who held that 
life was given us to be used in the service 
of others, that it was no more a selfish pos- 
session than money should be. He could 
laugh on the very edge of yeai's demanding 
complete self-abnegation. 

Just as coffee was served he looked at his 
watch. 

“ I forgot it completely. I have a most 
despicable memory,” and he gazed around 
with an expression of helpless apology ; I 
promised Chalmers to look in at his mission 
to-night. A wonderful work.” 


86 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


His expression was so ludicrous, Hugh 
laiisrhed outrifrht. 

O o 

“ It’s too late now, Mark.” 

“ Oil, no ; I’m not due until half ■ past 
nine or ten. It’s open all night, you know. 
But I should have thought of it before. I 
saw Chalmers yesterdaj", and when I heard 
how the Hawaiian afBair was to be liurried 
throuo-h — that I had not as much time to 

o 

linger about Noav York as I had hoped — I 
promised to go to him to-night. Will you 
pardon my hasty reti‘eat ? It’s a very long 
time since I have been so happy.” 

As Mai'ian watched him nervously Avip- 
ing his glasses, his large eyes fixed upon her 
Avith the tender, pathetic vacancy so often 
seen in near-sighted people, as suggestive of 
endearing helplessness as the lisp of a child, 
a startling idea sprang to life in her jierverse 
brain. 

She folloAA^ed all neAV ideas thirstily. Of 
this man and of his aims slie pined for a 
further glimpse. Ah ! he had mastered all 
tliat perplexed her in life. He kncAV. 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


87 


What time is it now ? ” she asked. 

Almost half-past eight.” 

“ And where is the mission ? 

In the slums of New York — in a street 
you probably never saw. Wrecks of wom- 
anly honor drift there for shelter, many to 
die. The world seems a chaos of heart- 
breaking misery and festering vice as seen 
througli the portals of the Sunlight Mission.” 
Marian rose impulsively. 

Women go there too — to see — do they 
not ? ” 

Oh, yes.” 

Then I'd like to go with you. I’ve never 
been in the slums. Let us all go. We can 
easily get there in an hour,” and the eager- 
ness in her voice w^as contamous. 

O 

“ I wish you would, with all my heart ! ” 
Mark exclaimed. 

“ Slumming was very fashionable last sea- 
son,” said Mrs. Ventnor, approvingly; “it 
would be odd.” 

But Hugh objected. 

“Really you would not enjoy an advent- 



88 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


ure of this sort. To read about these things 
is very different from seeing them. Don’t 

yf 

go. 

“ Nonsense. In dark cloth gowns we’ll 
just creep quietly about looking on. You 
know you advised me to see all sides of life.” 
And Marian faced him fully with a saucy 
lifting of her chin. 

“ But there is one side that belonjys to 

o 

silence.” 

“ No, there’s nothing more wholesome than 
realism — life — crude, bare, hideous, painful, 
like an excellent tonic with an ugly taste. 
So you must come. Dr. Larremore, as we 
shall have to rely on your pi'otection coming 
home, since Mr. Thorne does not return. 
And you, Mrs. Larremore ? At the risk of 
having your sensibilities jarred, will you be 
one of us ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, of course.” 

“ As if she’d let him go alone,” whispered 
Mrs. Ventnor as they went up the stairs to- 
gether, giving Marian an amused glance. 

A hurry to catch the train, the necessity 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


89 




of standing on tlie ferry-boat, creaking from 
its weight of passengers, the journey across 
town, took away the first flavor of the es- 
capade for Mrs. Ventnor. 

She became cross and Mrs. Larremore 
sleepy. Hugh, under this dual influence, re- 
mained sunk in an apathy he made no effort 
to resist. 

Sometimes his eyes sought Marian’s as she 
chatted in her sunniest way with Mark. 

There was a strangeness about her to-night, 
probably due to the sombre, severely made 
gown she wore, and close-fitting dark hat, 
under which her face shone like a flower. 
She was more vivacious, too, in her dainty 
high-bred way than he had ever seen her, as 
if she had determined to leave a haunting 
impression on poor Mark’s heart that might 
become a lasting regret in his exile, the sort 
of cruelty every woman with a single good 
feature finds irresistible. 

They left the car at a portion of the city 
that was once the aristocratic nucleus. But 
the houses that in the thirties were Knicker- 


90 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


bocker mansions were now rented ont in fonl 
lodgings, with the signs of Italian glaziers 
and Chinese laundryinen cheek by jowl. 

Their way lay along the Bowery for a few 
blocks. It was brilliant \vith the cheap 
brilliancy of dime-musenins and crystal- 



hnng gin-shops. A crowd surged around 
them that furnished a specimen from every 
dark corner in Europe. There was a jangle 
of strange tongues in their ears. A composite 
smell of awful foulness came to them with 
every breeze, like a beggar flaunting her pu- 
trid rags. Di'unken sailors reeled past as if 
the Atlantic pulsed under their feet. Scores 


THE VTHER HOUSE, 


91 


of women in bedraggled gowns with scarlet 
splashes on tlieir cheeks stared at them with 
implacable, gin-sodden eyes, or peered like 
jackals from the more secretive gloom of the 
side-streets. 

Vice flared - from the lighted doorways 
belching blatant strains of dance - music. 
Vice looked at them from the old eyes of 
forsaken children — hideous Vice, stripped of 
every false charm, liei* mask oif, her garments 
filth, her lips uttering pollution. 

Scarcely a word was spoken until the 
Mission came in sight. Marian’s sprightli- 
ness had vanished. She walked by Mark’s 
side with curious, observing eyes, and at some 
of the sights they encountered drew more 
closely to him, with a slight frown. 

The only point of light in the dark street 
leading oif the thoroughfare was the illu- 
minated words outside a small, red-brick 
house — 


The Sunlight Mission. 

“My peace I give unto you.” 


92 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


In the gloom at the corner a party of men 
and women stood about exchanging coarse 
jests. 

“There’s a party a-goin’ to the Mission,” 
shouted one girl, who looked barely sixteen. 
“ Ah, sisters and brothers, come to the Lord 
and be saved.” 

Shrieks of laughter followed this sally and 
echoed in the ears of the explorers until it 
was lost in the swelling notes of an organ 
that poured through the open windows like 
an invitation to peace. 

Against the rusty railing a woman leaned, 
one hand and foot advanced, her head bent 
forward as she listened with the avidity of a 
thii’st. She was bareheaded, and with one 
lean, eager hand held a ragged shawl to her 
breast. Her face, in the glare of gaslight 
from the hall, gleamed pallid as a corpse, ex- 
cept for one discolored eye. The approach- 
ing footsteps made her shrink away, but she 
still retained her hold of the railing. 

“ Come in ” — and Mark laid his hand very 
gently on her arm — “ won’t you ? You’ll 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 





/ . . ... . <%• 




93 


find light and fiiends and hope there. Won’t 
you come ? ” 

She hesitated, and her eyes sullenly sought 
the faces of the three women with him, who 
did not speak, and who made no movement 




toward her. The antagonism of woman for 
woman, the hatred of the lost for the happy, 
flashed into her woful eyes as she straight- 
ened herself. 

^‘Le’ go my arm,” she muttered, shaking 
herself free, a horrible smile, meant to ex- 
press contempt and indifference, distorting 
her face ; ‘‘ I’d look fine in there. What 


94 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


should I do there?” And she .walked 
quickly away, keeping close to the houses. 

Mrs. Ventuor was thoroughly en rci])]}ort 
with her surroundings no^w This was Zola 
outside the yellow covers of a novel. She 
looked after the woman, and a pitying 
chuckle left her lips. 

“ Poor devil ! Did you ever see such a 
face ? Upon my word if it were not for the 
smells this adventure would he more o'isque 
and entertaining than a French ball from be- 
hind a mask. Eh, Marian ? ” 

“ It’s horrible,” said Marian, clearly, and 
Hugh, who kneAV all her moods so well, saw 
the cynicism that pained him stealing over 
her. “These people do not seem human.” 

- “Pity them — pity them,” Mark rvhispered, 
with soft vehemence, as he went up the steps 
beside her. 

“ I can wonder at and shrink from them, 
but I can’t pity them, for I don’t believe 
they know horv wretched they are.” 

“ Don’t you think there may be roses even 
in this mire ? Yes, though they look only fit 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


95 


for the mii’e, a little fragrance still lurks in 
some of them around the folded inner heart. 
But only those who can pity will ever find 
it out.” 

Marian felt the fatherly reproof in the 
words, but thei’e was not time to say more, 
for his friend had come into the hall and 
was vigorously shaking them all by the 
hand. 

“ Follow me and I’ll give the ladies seats 
at the sides kept for visitors. But I wish, 
Thorne, that you and Dr. Larremore would 
come on the platform. We have a mighty 
poor showing there to-night.” 

He ushered them into a narrow, low-ceiled 
room, with benches down the centre, and to 
a corner where a row of chairs were raised 
above these. But there was no room for 
Hugh, and, obeying a gesture from Mark, he 
found himself on a small platform, gazing at 
the preacher’s back as he stood up facing 
the congregation, and with a wave of his 
hands inviting them all to pray. 

Mrs. Larremore bowed her head with the 


96 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


air of a devotee. Mrs. Ventnor lialf-covered 
her eyes with her gloved fingers and slyly 
jjeered through them ; Marian alone made 
no feint at praying. She lowered her head a 
little, her deep, dark eyes sweeping thought- 
fully over the j^lace and lingering on every 
detail. It was a scene she was never to foi'- 
get. Those of the women who wej'e inmates 
of the Mission sat in front. They were bai-e- 
headed and wore clean white aprons, while 
those who had strayed in that night in their 
rags and misery kept near the door. Here 
and tliere among the crowd a figure abjectly 
kneeling could be seen. 

A hymn was sung, and during it Mark 
and the preacher went among the ci'owd and 
talked to the new-comers, who for the most 
part answered them only in sullen whispers. 

One woman who sat just below Marian 
soon attracted her attention wholly. She 
was young and decently dressed, pretty, too, 
in a dark, bold style, despite the sinister lines 
on her face. Pi’esently Mark found his way 
to her. She listened to his whispered ad- 



THE OTHER HOUSE. 97 

monition, then slowly turned her bright eyes 
on him and shook her head. 


It’s too late, mister.” 



“ Kneel down and let us pray together.” 
Quit prayin’ for me. It’s an old story. 
’Tain’t any use,” she said, distinctly, in a 
harsh voice that still had a trace of culture 


98 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


lingering in it. “ It’s too late for prayer, I 
tell you.” 

“ But it’s not too late,” pleaded Mark, 
“ since you come here. It’s never too late 

if you feel the need ” 

“ And if you don’t feel the need ? ” came 
to Marian’s ears, in the same level tones. “ If 
you try to, and can’t, and wonder why you 
can’t, what are you going to do then ? ” 

It was an unanswei'able question. Even 
Mark was silent. When he went back to 
the j^latform he prayed aloud and fervently 
for that woman, and the outcast, listening, 
smiled. 

« 

Marian had watched this failure closely. 
For the first time a strenuous feeling stirred 
her heart in a new way. The women, kneel- 
ing in their I’ags, sending up choking pi'ayers, 
had held no meaning for her beyond the re- 
volting picture they presented ; but this 
woman, who felt nothing, who knew her 
vileness, yet could summon up no sliadow of 
regret for it, she somehow understood, with a 
faint, trembling horror through all her blood. 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


99 


This was moral sliipwi*eck. This was 
wliat it meant to be lost — though living, to 
be dead. A nervous abhorrence of tlie wom- 
an and the place swept over her, a longing 
to get away and forget it all. 

Mrs. Ventnor’s hand upon her arm startled 
her. 

Look, Mr. Thorne is askino; Dr. Larre- 
more to speak. I can tell he doesn’t want 
to. I wish ]je would, just for fun.” 

Marian looked over. She saw Hugh with 
his head inclined toward Mark, his usually 
pale cheeks slightly flushed. 

For my sake,” Mark was saying, “just 
say something to comfort them, as if they 
^vere some of your poorest j^^tients. You 
can do it. Forget it’s a Mission. I know 
this is different from talkino; about social 
economy to workmen, and the ethics of 
personal cleanliness to newsboys ; but you’ll 
never, in all probability, be here again. 
Some of these women are so young, and you 
are young. That little girl in the sailor hat 
has scarcely taken her eyes off you since you 


100 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


came in. Speak to her, Hugh, just a few 
words.” 

“ If you put it that way, of course — but I 
am unfit, unaccustomed. Still, if you think 
it wdll do any good, I will,” and his heart 
began to beat nervously. 

The thouorht of Marian watchincr him with 

O o 

a critical smile, made his face grow hot. 
She had laughed at him last night, after 
leading him on to speak of his creed. She ' 
would probably laugh now. 

“ Let her, then,” he thought ; “ let her 
laugh,” and when he heard Mark s]ieaking 
his name he stood up. 

The lights danced oddly just at first, but 
after a few words his self-possession re- 
turned. 

Then the charm of his rich, sweet voice, 
unmindful of what words he said, fixed the 
attention of that unhappy little congrega- 
tion. It was neither loud nor l)rilllant, that 
simple plea for repentance, right living, and 
clean morals. But it was terribly earnest, 
and the strong, persuasive seiitences filled 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


101 


the mean little place with harmony, stirring 
pure memories that had slept for years. 

Marian leaned forward in a strained atti- 
tude, her hands like ice and fiercely clasped, 
her eyes fastened on Hugh. His stalwart 
figure, his impulsively extended hands, and 
young glowing face touched some chord 
whose vibrations swept her soul. 

As the last words left his lips their 
glances met for the first time. 

That burning look ! It reminded him of 
the ignorant wonder of a dumb animal 
stunned by a blow. 


CHAPTER VII. 


Mark bade them good-by at the feviy- 
house. 

“ I must see more of you before I set off 
for the cliffs of Molokai, Hugh. I will not 
leave much before a fortnight, although I’ll 
be rushed to death in the interim. You’ll 
come to me in a few days. You know the 
Mission address on Broadway.” 

Good-by, and good-by to the others, his 
pathetic eyes lingering a little longer on 
Marian’s face as she gave him her hand, then 
this latter-day martyr jumped cheerfully on 
a cross-town car and was whirled from their 
sight. 

By the time Macedon Place was reached 
it was past midnight. 

“ Catch me beina; such a fool aa:ain ! ” 
cried Jenny, as she threw herself heavily 


TUE OTHER HOUSE, 


103 


into a cliair and drew off lier long gloves. 

I was sick to death, of the whole thing.” 

Hugh had been silent under complaints of 
the same nature all the way home, and he 
said nothing now. 

His face was dazed and pale. It was 
evident his thoughts were elsewhere. He 
went into his study and remained lost in a 
revery before the open window. 

In a corner of the room a throbbing spark 
of fire burned behind the globe. The shad- 
ows caused l)y the sputtering of the electric 
light on the street flew like great moths 
over the dew-drenched garden, where every 
leaf was transformed into a white diamond. 
In the semi-gloom and midnight silence he 
could hear the beating of his heart. 

Every detail of the evening returned to 
him. He was ao:ain facing the rows of deso- 
late women, the hackneyed chorus of a 
hymn beating like waves upon his conscious- 
ness, and his eyes mixing with Marian’s 
across the crowd. 

That last look of hers had seared his 


104 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


heart. It was as if she had touched him 
with her hand. That look ! What had it 
meant ? 

“ Hugh, why on earth are you moping 
there in the dark? It’s almost moi'ninor. 

O 

Close the shatters and come up,” called 
Jenny from the top of the stairs in a high 
tone of exasperation, and he started as if she 
had touched a sensitive nerve. 

“ I’ll be up in a moment,” came haltingly 
from his lips. 

Petulant fragments about neglecting his 
health by “ going to New York and preach- 
ing to a lot of drunken women,’’ reached him 
through the half-open dooi's, but he paid no 
attention. 

He sat alone, confounded by a revelation. 

“ My God ! I love her,” broke from him 
in anguish, and his whole body shuddered. 

Now he knew why the old freedom, the 
sweet, frank comradeship of the earlier 
weeks had died. Passion had laid his burn- 
ing hand on the sweet brow of Friendship, 
and the well-known face had assumed a 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


105 


guilty look. I^ow lie knew why her light- 
est word could pain him, why her face fol- 
lowed him. 

A sound like the distant closino; of a door 

O 

made him lift his head. What was that 
shadow, larger than the others, creeping 
across the garden ? 

He was the victim of a fancy, surely, for 
it seemed to him tliat Marian stood before 
him. He called her by name, and she 
mutely answered by a gesture that Avas 
childish and appealing. Tlie astounding 
thing Avas true. She had come to him, alone, 
after midniglit, her beautiful face convulsed 
Avith pain. She had come to him ! Why ? 

From an u|:>per Avindow Jenny had seen 
the shadoAV too. 

He is Avaiting for her,'^ she muttered, be- 
tween her chattering teeth. 

She clutched at her throat as if she Avere 
choking, her eyes starting from her head. A 
shawl lay on the chair beside her, and, 
quickly tAvisting it about ^her shoulders, she 
crept doAvn the stairs into the dark hall, her 


106 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


bare feet making no sound. The door was 
ajar. She could see without being seen. 

Hugh was standing inside the long win- 
dow, one hand thrust backward and grasp- 
ing his chair. The woman whom she had 
always feared, and whom she now hated, 
crouched on the window-seat. 

“ Why have you come ? ” Hugh asked, in 
a voice that sounded unnatural. 

“ Do not be angry.” 

It ^vas a passionate, sighing whisper, and 
Marian’s hands were crossed hard upon her 
heart. 

“ It seemed that my heart must burst if 
another night passed — without your know- 
mg. 

Hugh looked apprehensively toward the 
door, hesitated, and then leaned toward her, 
speaking in the caressing tone that was so 
irresistible from his lips. 

“Speak very softly. You are in some 
trouble. Tell me quickly. If I can helj) 
you — ” Oh, the desire to take her in his 
arms. It turned his blood to flame. 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


107 


He battled with himself and faced her, 
rigid, self-contained, and deadly pale under 
an armor of silence. 

The lovely, stricken face was lifted nearer, 
the woman's hands reached out and clasped 
his. 

Help me ? Yes — yes, you can — you 
have. Your words to-night have saved me. 
I know now I have a soul. To-night it 
spoke to me. Oh, that voice, so long si- 
lenced.” 

A sob sad as a dirge drifted from her lips, 
though her eyes were wide and dry. 

Those lost women I sat among to-night,” 
she said in a clear, slow whisper, forcing 
herself to say what hurt her cruelly, I 
have sinned like them.” 

Jenny ci’ept nearer. Hugh had not stirred. 

Did you hear me ? ” 

Yes.” 

You don’t believe me. Your face tells 
me so.” 

Something hard and reckless rang in the 
words as she started up, a lonely, black-robed 


108 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


figure, the mysticism of the night enfolding 
her. 

“ I tell you it is true. The rags are miss- 
ing, and the visible degradation, but until to- 
night I was like that woman — that woman 
who sat near me, who had sinned without 
remorse, and wondered why. Oh, listen, and 
know me for what I am. I was married 
when a very young girl. Five years ago my 
husband died. He 'wms a scoundrel. How 
I loathed him. The three years spent witli 
him were one long degradation.” 

She wrung her hands and threw them out 
from her, as if casting away some loathsome 
thing. 

“ Since that time my life has been a reck- 
less one. I had an independent foi'tune. I 
gave the reins to extravagance of every sort, 
though always living within the pale of re- 
spectability. Ah, that is tlie last thing wom- 
en like me are disposed to renounce. But I 
cannot tell you all.” 

The choked words came thicker, faster 


now. 




KNOW ME FOR WHAT I 




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THE OTHER HOUSE. 


109 


‘‘ Perhaps you can guess how callous I 
became. By a love that proved afterward 
but a moth-like sensuality, I was swayed for 
years. It faded at last, leaving a weary dis- 
gust, and I knew very well that the man who 
had inspired it — corrupt and soulless though 
dangerously brilliant — had never touched, 
even remotely, the better side of my nature. 
Oh, how I grew to hate him — my mode of 
living — my surroundings — myself ! It was 
not repentance. Why, even the power to 
think, the capability of valuing what I had 
lost seemed taken from me. It was only sa- 
tiety, distaste, restlessness. I secretly sought 
solitude here merely out of caprice, because 
I was bored. I met you. The rest you 
know.” 

Jenny could hardly keep back the torrent 
of rage and abuse beating against her lips. 
Surely Hugh would push the woman from 
him after this terrible confession. 

But he did nothing of the sort. Disjoint- 
ed sentences of sympathy and encourage- 
ment reached her, as he looked into Marian’s 


110 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


eyes and clasped tlie bands she bad beld out 
to bim. In wbat be said there was pity, 
loyalty, an incentive to bope, but not a touch 
of condemnation. 

“ Go now,” be said at last ; “ it is very late.” 

Her sweet mouth quivered, a light broke 
over her face. 

“ Ah, you are so good ! ” she whispered, 
and stole away as quietly as she bad come. 

For a moment Huajh stood listeninof. No, 

O O’ 

there was not a sound. lie. threw himself 
down beside a couch and buried his face in 
his hands. lie had not believed liimself 
capable of the agony of feeling that held 
him. Love and fear, pity, regret, passion, 
and joy mingled together in an indescribable 
ferment. 

“ I have sinned like them,” rang in his ears 
like a torrent. Oh, how horribly he had 
understood all and more than she had said. 
The look that tormented him was explained. 
No wonder he had felt it to the core of his 
lieart. It had mirrored the resurrection of a 


conscience. 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


Ill 


She Lad said that lie Lad Lelped Ler, Le 
Lad saved Ler. 

And all tlie wLile I loved Ler,” Le 
tlioiiglit, miserably. 

Bat tliat was done witli forever. TLe 
tears tliat started from Lis eyes waslied Lis 
Leart clean. 

Tears. And Le Lad not wept since boy- 
Lood till tliat iiiglit. TLose beseecLing eyes, 
tliat Lalting, sliamed voice, tlie burning 
Lands clinging to Lis, Ler gratitude, Ler 
Luniility — could Le ever forget tliem ? Slie 
Lad needed liiiii, come to Lim in tlie sanctity 
of remorseful anguisL, and so Lad disarmed 
tlie devil, wLo for a moment Lad stood wliis- 
pering at Lis side. 

In a twinkling tlie room was illumined, 
and starting up, Lis face marred by tears and 
passion, Le faced Lis wife. 

Slie was standing under tlie gas jet in tlie 
corner, Ler trembling fingers still Lolding tlie 
little knob. An iinpisL fury made Ler small 
body quiver. Her face was bluisli-wliite, 
tlie Lairpins around wliicL slie Lad twisted 


112 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


the fringe of hair above her forehead stood 
upright and trembled with demoniac signifi- 
cance. 

Hugh spoke first. For Marian’s sake he 
hoped the actual words of that interview had 
not been overheard, but he feared the worst. 

“ You have grown tired waiting,” and he 
jmshed the disordered liaij* back from his 
brow, forcing a smile. Yes, of course. I 
had not meant to stay so long.” 

She gave a harsb, insulting laugh. 

Don’t trouble yourself to lie about it. 
You were well entertained. You see I 
know all. I heard every word she said.” 
There v ere aspects of Hugh’s character, 
expressions of which his strong face was 
capable, that his foolish little wife could not 
understand, and which sometimes frightened 
her. She was frightened now. His face 
grew rigid and pale to weakness, his eyes 
opaque and heavy, the pulse in his forehead 
beat with sluggish intensity. 

She faced him defiantly for a moment, 
then her hands went up to her eyes and she 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


113 


commenced to cry. He knew tliat her jeal- 
ous, narrow soul was roused to attack. Rea- 
son and persuasion would alike be wasted 
upon her. But Marian must be protected 
whatever came. 

^‘You heard all, you say?” and he con- 
trolled his voice to quietness. 

^^Yes, I did,” came in a spiteful burst 
through Jenny’s quaking fingers. 

Then you must pity her as much as I do.” 
Pity her ? ” 

She faced him now, a woman beside her- 
self with jealousy : 

I’d like to see her driven from this place, 

t 

beaten, jeered at ! I’d like to see her ” 

You must pity her, I say, if you have a 
spark of true womanhood in you.” 

How dare you speak to me of her — of 
that creature ? I tell you the whole street 
will hear what she is to-morrow; yes, the 
whole town.” 

Conquering her awe of him, she stamped 
upon the gi’ound in a spasm of fury that 
twisted her face into hideousness. 


114 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


“ Creej)ing liere at dead of iiiglit — oli, I’m 
not a fool ! Pretending to be sorry. Bah’ ! 
She’s a common woman, and nothing else. 
Take your hands off me. You sha’n’t touch 
me.” 

Like a peevish child she plucked at 
Hugh’s strong hands pressed firmly upon hei' 
shoulders. 

. “ I shall touch you, and you sliall listen to 
me. If yon have any grievance it is against 
me. The woman yon revile is innocent of 
the slightest wish to wi'ong you. Say what 
you please to me. Do what you please. 
But the difference shall be settled between 
ns only. Yon listened to a miserable stoiy 
of sin and remorse to-night. You know all 
yon were not intended to hear, and you shall 
respect that confession.” 

“You’ll see if I will.” 

“ You must. If by a hint or a word you 
betray what you know, we shall be as 
stran«:ers for the rest of our lives, even 
thoimh ^ve continue to live to2;ethe]‘.’’ 

“ Well, I don’t care,” and she folded her 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


115 


arms, rocking doggedly to and fro. When 
my husband wants me to associate with, 
even to recognize, a woman like that, it’s 
time we separated.” 

Hugh’s lips twitched painfully. He lifted 
his hands in a gesture of despair. 

Oh, Jenny, is this your charity ? ’’ 

She tossed her head and made no answer. 
You think yourself a good woman. AVhat 
does it mean? You go to church and call 
yourself a sinnei*. You ask to be forgiven 
as you forgive. And you would scourge the 
woman who is strimo:lino: to rise to the 
heaven of purity she has fallen from.” 

That’s all very well. I don’t believe a 

word she said that way. She’s just a ” 

Be silent ! ” he commanded sternly, his 
ej^es flashing. Let us end this miserable 
scene. You can only look on one side of the 
shield, as I might have known. I advise you, 
however, to think twice before you set up a 
barrier between us. If you act sensibly, we 
may still, forgetting this, be happy together.” 
He opened the door for her. 


116 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


“I’ll sj^end the night here. Consider what 
I say. You shall tell me your decision in 
the mornins'.” 

o 

As she passed him he held out his hand. 

“ Have a little mercy. . Promise to be 
silent. I ask only that.” 

“I hate you both,” flashed from her thin, 
compressed lips, and, striking his hand, she 
rushed past him. 

Before he slept he wrote a letter to Mar- 
ian. He wanted to spare her humiliation if 
by any chance slie met Jenny. He told lier 
in the kindest way possible of his wife’s atti- 
tude, adding some strong, earnest assurances 
of his enduring friendship. 

The next morning he sent it to her. 

Malian read it as^ain and afjain until a 
mist of tears blurred the hastily scrawled 
sheet. 

“ He is a dear, good fellow.” 

She said the words slowly, looking away 
into the sunshine of the glad, azure morning, 
a happy light in her eyes. 

There had dawned in her such an acute. 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


117 


glorious consciousness of life in its best 
sense. Life that was not frivolity, nor lazy 
dreaming, nor a thing to be used simply for 
her own pleasure without a thought of its 
imperative responsibilities. 

And Hui^h had wroimht the chans;e. He 

o o o 

had poured the power of his truth, the 
warmth of his pity on her torpid heart. She 
seemed to feel his hand warm and fast upon 
her own, as he led her back, step by ste]). 
She seemed to go willingly, her eyes meet- 
ing his like a little child. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


There was one tiling Jenny could do ex- 
cellently. She could cherish a grudge with 
a tenacity that was marvellous. As a child 
she had sulked ; as a woman she brooded 
until her wrongs rose from mole -hills to 
mountains. 

Anger at Hugh’s espousal of her neigh- 
bor’s cause had quite died out, leaving be- 
hind it a settled venom, an ugly, bitter hate, 
incomprehensible to any save just such pale, 
thin-blooded, vixenish women. 

For three days she neither looked at nor 
spoke to Hugh. His attemjits at concilia- 
tion could not have met with less response 
from a brick wall. She i^olished her nails 
oftener and more assiduously than was usual, 
sat with her lips compressed, and ate her 
food in silence. Hugh had prevented her 


TEE OTHER HOUSE. 


119 


from carrying out her threat of exposing 
Marian, but her obedience meant total es- 
trangement from himself. 

On the third evening Mrs. Larremore had 
disappeared. In her stead, a letter in a 
small, pale blue envelope, heavily scented 
with violet, awaited Hugh. 

It begged him to understand that every- 
thing Avas over between them ; he had in- 
sulted her in her own house ; she had en- 
dured his altered manner and low intrigue 
with Miss Trent since March, but the last 
blow had been too much for any woman to 
bear quietly ; she had written a full account 
of his conduct to her dear mother, and at 
her advice now went back to her, leaving 
him to go his own way, as she would go 
hers; it would be quite useless to follow 
her ; doubtless Miss Trent would compen- 
sate for any regret he might feel at his 
wife’s departure, if such a thing as regret for 
her was possible to him ; she had taken her 
trunks, all four of them ; she also wished 
him to understand that before leaving she 


120 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


had gone to Miss Trent and told her just 
what she thought of her ; and she ^vas, very 
truly, his injured wife. 

This was the substance of the letter that 
trembled in Hu2:h’s finsfers. 

Jenny gone ! His wife left liini ! He liad 
never dreamed of this. After the first sense 
of shock his eyes fell again on the line : 

want you to understand that before 
leaving I told Miss Trent just ^vhat I 
thought of her and of you.” 

^'You fool!” he muttered, flinging the 
paper from him and crushing it under his 
foot. What are you driving me to? ” 

Rage and humiliation swept over him in 
waves. A cry of disgust broke from him. 
If she had only waited, Marian would have 
gone so soon with no suspicion of the love 
he had sworn to conquer. In her senseless, 
vindictive jealousy his wife had betrayed 
him. He had not seen Marian even for a 
moment since the night she had sought him. 
He had purposely kept away, had avoided 
meeting her by all sorts of small precautions 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


121 


— and now ? Ob, it was maddening. He 
was sliamed beyond redress. 

How long lie stood staring at the letter be 
did not know. 

Tbe servant, after speaking to bim several 
times, ventured to approach and toiicb bim on 
tbe arm. 

Dinner is ready, sir.’** 

As sbe Avaited upon bim sbe cast timid 
glances at bis stera, weary face. Sbe was 
soiT)^ for bim, but be asked no questions, 
and sbe ventured no expression of sympatby. 

Tbe missis gone, and as heartless a bit 
of flesh and blood as ever lived, Avitli no 
thought in tbe world but dress and. style,'’ 
sbe conflded to tbe tea-caddy later ; and be 
tbe best of men, with always a kind smile 
and ready word. It just hurts me to see 
bim sittin’ there alone, bis dog’s head on bis 
knees, so it does.” 

Before Huo;b left tbe table tbe bell rano;. 

o o 

It Avas a maid from next door, AAutb a note 
from Mrs. Ventnor : 

“ Come in for a moment, do. We knoAV 


122 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


wliat has happened. Your Avife stopped 
here to-day on her Avay to the train. A little 
diplomacy A\dll set the AAdiole matter straight.” 
A burning flush mounted to his forehead 
as he read the A\mrds. Go in and face them 
after the scene to Avhich they had been 
treated that day ? He could not. 

“ I’m sorry I find it impossible — •” he 
dashed olf, and then hesitated. But Avhy 
not go ? Might it not be better to carry the 
unfortunate matter olf lightly, acting as he 
Avould if Jenny’s onslaught had been utterly 
Avithout foundation. Besides, some sort of 
explanation Avas required of him. 

They Avere just finishing dinner when he 
Avas admitted. Marian AAms facing the open 
door of the dining-room, and as lie Avalked 
doAAui the hall the enticement of her delicate 
beauty stole out to meet him. 

Beautiful ? Yes, she AArns that and more. 
A AAdiiteuess from tie neAvly lit candles and 
the Avarm ijlow from the lino’erinc: tAvili^ht 

o O O o 

Avrapped her about, lighting up the depths 
of her eyes and the transparent delicacy of 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


123 


her skin. As on the first night he had seen 
her, she wore a white, short-waisted gown, her 
supple throat uncovered, a star in her hair. 

Surely his last, torturing memory of her 
was but a vagary. This woman could never 
have sobbed out the confession that had so 
disturbed his life. There was nothing of the 
Magdalen in the untroubled, lovely face be- 
fore him. There was no difference outward- 
ly ; and yet, yes there was, foi* he had never 
thought her eyes untroubled before. 

She sent him a smile that thrilled him with 
joy, while it made him steel his heart with 
sudden pain. 

^^Very glad you’ve come, my dear boy,” 
and Mrs. Ventnor gave him her plump, 
jewelled hand. ^^Sit down opposite and 
have a cup of coffee with me.” 

Thank you, I have but just dined,” and 
he sank into a chair, his brain in confusion. 

Marian rose from her seat, looking stead- 
ily, thoughtfully at him, as if to impi’ess 
every expression of his changeful face on her 
memory : 


124 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


“ I’ll leave you to chat together foi‘ a few 
moments. I must speak to Roberts,” and 
she walked slowly from the I'oom. 

“ I suppose you can guess why I sent for 
you in this friendly fashion — to give you a 
motherly scolding,” said Mrs. Ventnoi’, when 
they were alone. “There, you needn’t dep- 
recate. I’m old enough to be your mother. 
I confess to forty-five. Whether I am more 
is nobody’s business but my own. Do take 
a cigarette — Egyptian— -you’re sure to like 
them.” 

He obeyed absently, and she handed him 
a lighted match. 

O 

“ So your wife has taken it into her foolish 
little head to run away,” she continued, with 
a slmig. “ Young women have a habit of 
doing that nowadays. But when they find 
they can’t tyrannize over anyone so success- 
fully as they have over their husbands, they 
cool down and come back. No matter what 
she said. We’ll wipe that out. Marian and 
I are too sensible to remember it. She ^vas 
jealous without reason, and that’s an end of 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


125 


it. I don’t care a brass pin about her, but I 
like you, and in case you shouldn’t see your 
way clear — you look as if you could be hot- 
headed at times — I’ve undertaken the pleas- 
ant duty of pointing it out to you.” 

She nodded her head at him and leaned 
forward. 

“ It’s a very bad thing for a young man’s 
wife to leave him — very bad for him,” she 
said, seriously. ^^I’ve lived double my age 
in experience, and I know. It leaves him 
unsettled. It sometimes turns the current of 
his life the wrong way. I’ve shirked my 
own duty pretty thoroughly, and the knowl- 
edge hasn’t added a wrinkle to my brow; 
but I am a moral outlaw by nature, believ- 
ing in the happy philosophy that nothing 
matters much. You are different. You can- 
not ignore your responsibilities without suf- 
fering. It’s merely a matter of temperament, 
do you understand ? ” 

“ Perfectly. What am I to do ? ” 

Come now, not that listless tone. You 
are to write to your wife to-night, urging her 


126 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


to return. You are to write a letter that 
will soften her heart, make her realize that 
you need her. You are to offer the most 
gracious terms for a reconciliation. She’ll 
cry over it, and be in your arms before t^vo 
days have passed.” 

It was on his lips to say bitterly : 

“You do not know hei‘,” but he checked 
the impulse. 

She was still his wife, and he must shield 
her. 

“ I’ll do what you advise, Mi’s. Ventnor ; 
it’s very good of you — ” and he started up, 
for it was unbearable to sit tliere longer; 
“ very good of you,” and his voice Avas a 
little husky, “ to forget a foolish Avoman’s 
burst of temper. I am sorry, deeply soriy 
this thing occurred.” 

“ Not another Avord about it,” insisted 
Mrs. Ventnor, playfully. “And oh, by the 
Avay, I have not told you about the house. 
We have ari'anged to rent it, furnished, to a 
friend for the remainder of the lease. You’ll 
only have us to bother you a little longer. 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


127 


IVe put off going away until Tuesday. 
Marian will join me in New York on 
Wednesday. The new, tenant, a very pleas- 
ant man, and an artist, will come at the end 
of the week. It — er — would be wise, I 
think, to mention our approaching dej^art- 
ure to your wife.” 

These words meant only one thing to 
Hugh. The woman he loved was going 
away sooner than he had thought, and for- 
ever. Better so, but his heart was like ice. 

He said good-night to Mrs. Ventnor, and 
Marian met him on the threshold. She went 
with liim into the hall and stood by his side. 

The door was open to the lilac-scented air 
that swept in in moist breaths. The darken- 
ing sky rolled away, a glare of green at the 
west. 

Not good-night,” came in a whisper 
from Marian’s lips. No, it is good-by. 
Good-by, my friend.’' 

And as they stood so, face to face in the 
fragrant gloom, the peace of the hour crept 
in, weaving a spell of separateness from the 


128 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


world around them, the spirit of the night 
seemed listening to their words. 

But the peace availed Hugh nothing. 
Something seemed choking him. Words 
were impossible. The torment and sadness 
in his eyes deepened into an unutterable 
farewell. 

Marian had thrust one hand backward, 
and it clutched at the folds of a portiere, but 
her body leaned toward him and her eyes 
rested on his. 

“Do you know how much I owe you? 
Have you thought? Everything. Yes, ev- 
erything. Oh, you have been the one good 
in my life ! You are dear to me. May I 
not say it fi'ankly ? I shall miss you — oh, 
how I shall miss you. But that you may 
not suffer, I must go away.” 

Then somethina: in Huarh’s heart broke 

O o 

through restraint. The flood-gates of his 
soul seemed to open, and a sob that was a 
prayer carried Avith it a part of his life. 

“ Marian ” 

“ No, don’t say it. Don’t ! ” and she 



“the torment and sadness in his 


EYES DEEPENED INTO AN UNUT 


j > 


TERABLE FAREWELE. 











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’. '-c., ' ■ I j ■ ' f. ’< 4*. •• ■’-A' V 



f 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 129 

turned away, shielding her face against her 
extended arm, but not before Hugh had read 
there a marvellous thing. 

She loved him — Marian loved him. 

“ Please go away, please go ! ” she prayed, 
shrinking from him. 

Without a' word he went from her pres- 
ence, blind and deaf to the beauty of the 
night. 


CHAPTEE IX. 


Two clouded, passionate days, filled 'with 
unrest and pain, went by before Hngli could 
bring any order out of chaos, call duty and 
self-control to his sah^ation, and write to his 
wife as Mrs. Ventnor had advised. 

When the letter was gone he could not 
have told what he had written. But he 
wished miserably she was l^aclc. If he could 
hear her voice and footstep, meet her little 
practical needs to fill the days, and check the 
morbid fancies that tortured him ! For he 
had fancies — dreams wild and ]3assionate — 
that burnt up all rest. 

Late on Tuesday afternoon he 2 >assed the 
cab carrying Mrs. Ventnor to the train. She 
made the driver sto]>, and beckoned to Hugh. 
“ No news from the little one yet ? ” 

“No news, Mrs. Ventnor.” 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


131 


Dear me. You’re looking badly, young 
man. But don’t worry. I tliink there’s a 
letter at home for you. I saw the postman 
go in as I got into the cab, and I caught a 
glimpse of the writing. My best wishes for 
you both when you have tenderly assured 
each other that it will never happen again,” 
and she shook hands with him almost affec- 
tionately. 

The only good man I ever found interest- 
ing,” she said, with a sigh, as she watched 
him down the street. 

Mrs. Ventnor was riglit. There was a let- 
ter. Hugh read it eagerly, and a sneer 
passed over his face. It was a repetition of 
worn-out reproaches, a triumphant refusal to 
return under any conditions. 

She won’t come. So that’s over with,” 
he thought. 

Utterly spent, he flung himself on his bed 
and slept for hours. A clock striking eleven 
awakened him. His head was bursting with 
pain. The blood seemed clogged in his 
temples, and he felt alternate flashes of heat 


V 


132 THE OTHER HOUSE. 

and cold. After batliina: liis face and Lead 

o 

witli cold water the pain grew less, but lie 
ifelt dazed and miserable. He left the room 
'without any definite purpose. Something 
seemed dead within him. 

On the wall, just opposite the bedroom 
door, one of the daubs that disfigured the 
panels and ceilings of the house flamed up 
before him. It was the life-sized picture of 
an impossible goddess, a sceptre in her hand, 
and a look of Jenny — or so he fancied — -in 
her hard blue eyes. 

As he stood staring at the picture in a 
spiritless way, a long, sweet, muffled note 
from a violin cpiivered upon the stillness. 

Hugh looked around as if a voice had 
called his name. The music grew strongei’, 
sweeter, the measures rapid. Marian Avas 
playing like one inspired. It Avas the march 
from “ x\ida,” and succs-ested the clashing of 
cymbals — an opulence of color. He conjured 
up the picture of her, perhaps in the white 
gown he loved, playing for the last time in 
the other house. 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


133 


After to-niglit lie would see her, hear her 
no more. 

He threw back his head and set his teeth 
hard. Oh, to be with her now, if only for a 
moment ! Could he let her pass from him 
forever, with only their last hurried fare- 
well ? 

He no longer remembered how late it was, 
nor the madness of ^j;oiim when Mrs. Ventnor 
was away. Conventionality and prudence 
were foro;otten. He must see her. 

With this thought upward in his mind he 
moved toward the stairs, as if under the di- 
rection of a will stronger than his own, when 
the march abruptly ceased, and he found his 
face bathed with moisture, his knees trem- 
bling. He had not known how deeply the 
music had moved him. No, he dared not go. 
It was wrong, all wrong. 

The letter Jenny had written him lay at 
his feet. In an absorbed, gloomy fashion, he 
picked it up and slowly tore it into little 
pieces, strewing them on the floor 

What’s to be done ? What’s to be 


134 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


done ? ” he thought, with the apathy that 
comes when all hope is dead. 

Then a full realization of eveiy thing pain- 
ful and inharmonious in his life rushed over 
him, but most of all the thought that he 
loved Marian, and she must never know more 
of that love than had been i*evealed to her in 
one mad word, followed by good-by. 

Her name in a whisper left his lips again 
and again, and he flung himself violently 
against the Avail, throwing up his arms like 
one wounded and burying his head upon 
them. A second only tlie madness lasted, 
and he fell to his knees, shuddering. 

The music commenced again, soft and 
trembling this time, only a Avhisper. It Avas 
MoschoAVski’s Serenade — that matchless 
hymn of passion that seems to voice the 
burden of a heart heavy Avith love. The 
plaintive, almost intoleral)ly s\veet repetition 
of the first phrase came like a confession 
broken by tears. It talked to him of love: 

Love, that keeps all the choir of lives in chime* 
Love, that is blood within the veins of time.’^ 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


135 


He held his breath in rapture. Oh, how 
sweet it was ! 

As he staggered to his feet, still leaning 
and listening, his very soul drawn out of 
him, a strange thing occurred. He became 
aware that the goddess had moved backward 
half an inch in her frame. Startled, he laid 
his hand upon the picture, and with a grat- 
ing sound it retreated a little more. A half- 
open door seemed to gape before him. He 
was surely mad. But now the music reached 
him more plainly. He saw that he must be- 
lieve his senses. It was a door, unguessed 
by anyone all these years, and it opened into 
the other house. 

The mystery surrounding the old murder 
was revealed in one paralyzing flash, and he 
stood quite dazed, looking into the lamp-lit 
passage beyond. Only a step and he would 
be with her. She was so near him now. 

Temptation beckoned to him like a laugh- 
ing mistress that would not be denied. This 
discovery had swept the ground from be- 
neath his feet. Still he hesitated. 


136 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


The music had changed from the burden of 
the prayer to that fierce cry, coming as if 
from a riven soul where triumph and despair 
seem incomprehensibly mingled. 

“ Come,” it seemed to say. “ Don’t you 
know that I love you ? Oh, I am sighing out 
my life to you here. Come. Let the Avorld 
go by. Love is everything. Nothing else 

matters much. Oh, come ! ” 

/ 

The surging melody swept through his 
blood and poisoned it. All that was seduc- 
tive and sweet in life passed by him in a 
vision. Reason left him. He no longer 
stai’ed at the door like one fascinated by 
something that terrified him, but laid his 
hands eagerly on it, the joy that comes from 
complete abandonment to the worst within 
us glittering in his eyes. The music still in- 
vited him. There was no resisting it now, 
even if he had wished, and he did not. 

He crossed the threshold, and carefully 
pushed the picture back into its place. 


1 


/ 


CHAPTEE X. 

9 

The (lay was very hot — hot from the mo- 
ment the sun had shown his glaring eye over 
the horizon ; hot with a menace, an exulta- 
tion, a defiance. 

A blinding glare of sunlight poured 
through the uncurtained Avindo\v, and made 
a dusty halo around Mark Thorne’s head 
where he sat writing, only stopping at infre- 
quent intervals to wipe his brow, or give an 
impatient tug to his damp collar. The con- 
glomerate hum of Broadway rose plaintively 
through the sluggish atmosphere, the flies 
hummed with a dozing cadence, and even in 
the scratch of Mark’s pen there was some- 
thing drowsy and halting. At last he 
stopped altogether and flung it from him, 
rose, and stretched out his hands with a 
yawn : 

Whew ! What a day ! ” 




/ 


138 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


He plunged his hands in his pockets and 
looked at the packing-cases, all securely 
strapped and bearing, in bold, black char- 
acters, their foreign address. . After this si- 
lent scrutiny he lounged to the window and 
watched the cars tinkling past loaded with 
people, the fretful-looking passengers elbow- 
inq; one another in the astoundinsf varieties 
of fashionable summer negligence. From 
the nearest side-street came the warning 
clang of an ambulance bell. A watering-cart 
jogged past, sending the edge of its spurting 
shower indiscriminately over the dusty curb- 
stone and a bare-legged newsboy. Scarcely 
a block away, a safe was being hoisted to the 
fifth stoiy of one of the huge stone piles that 
shut out the sky. A one - armed veteran, 
jiropped against the corner lamp-post, and 
holding a battered organ, played the drink- 
ing song fi'om “ Faust,” with wheezy pauses 
that turned it into a funeral march. 

Mark gazed at it all, and a dimness came 
over his pale, near-sighted eyes, a childish 
tremble to the corners of his mouth. Oh, 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


139 


Ilow lie loved it — dust and heat and noise — 
how he loved it. All the beauty of Persia 
had not weaned him from its strange spell 
of enchantment. Often, while watching the 
tender evening light resting on the snowy 
crests of Shim Iran, or while travelling under 
the moon on a camel’s back, or in passing 
throimh Teheran’s network of covered streets 

O 

lined by dim, fragrant bazaars, he had in 
fancy conjured up this same long, narrow, 
crowded Broadway, and had thirsted for 
it as does a stag for the waters of a pool at 
even-tide. 

To-morrow,” he said, and slowly drew 
out his watch, which showed the hour to be 
past three, “ by this time, I shall have left it 
all — forever ! ” 

He shut his watch with a click that ex- 
pressed finality and turned back to his desk. 
His eyes were no longer dim, and the usual 
calm and streno;th had returned to his face. 

O 

Soon he had collected tlie important papers, 
and taking out a long wallet, carefully ar- 
ranged them in it. But before closing it he 


140 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


turned to another compartment and lovingly 
drew out two small photographs. 

One was the picture of a woman. It was 
a delicate, girlish face that met his gaze, the 
eyes dove-like, the small mouth pathetically 
drooped at the corners. The bodice was made 
in a fashion in vogue fifteen years ago, and 
over her shoulder a soft curl fell confidingly. 

Jessie,” was written underneath. 

"No words were needed to show how he 

f - - 

had loved hei‘. Had she lived, how different 
his life would have been ! 

It was not to be, my girl,” he said aloud, 
and lifted the other. 

It was Hugh at twenty, bright, boyish, a 
saucy speculation in the frank, deep eyes, 
lie was sitting on the edge of a table, his 
hands in his trousers’ pockets. 

“You’ve treated me shabbily, you young 
scamj^,” thought Mark, addressing the pict- 
ure of the collefice lad in his hand instead of 

o 

Hugh as he Avas then ; “ I’ve been hoping 
you’d come to see me for three days past. 
I’ll haAm to look jmu iip to-night. Couldn’t 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


141 




2T0 away ^vitliout another look at Huojh — 

%/ CP 

couldn't do it.” 

A voice attracted him as lie replaced tlie 
picture, and he turned his head. Somebody 
was s]3eaking in tlie hall. 

The rooms of the Western Mission are in 
this building ? ” 

‘‘ Just at the end of the hall, sir,” the por- 
ter replied. 

Mark started forward to open the door 
and met Iluyli as he entered. He wore 

O 

loose summer clothes of light gray that made 
him look taller than his wont. His face ^vas 
pale and a little drawn around the mouth, 
but he smiled as he grasped Mark’s hand, 
and Hugh's smile was always like a Imrst of 
light from the soul \rithin. 

Do you know,” cried Mark, as Hugh sat 
down with his back to the sunny window, 
and ran his fingers restlessly through the 
thick hair on his temples, was just this 
moment apostrophizing your photograph, 
giving you a round scolding for deserting 
me. What’s kept )^ou away, my boy ? ” 


142 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


“ A photograph of mine ? ” asked Hugh 
quickly, not hearing the last question. 

“ To he sure. The one you had taken for 
me ten years ago.” 

“ Let me see it.” 

He took it eagerly, looked at the sunny 
face in silence, his eyes growing sultry with 
strong feeling, and handed it back. 

“ I was happy then.” 

As he spoke he clenched his hand like a 
man in physical pain. 

“ Mark, come here.” 

“ Why, what is it ? Are you in trouble ? 
You are — I see you are — speak out. What’s 
the matter, Hugh 1 Anything very serious ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Ah, the dead hopelessness of that word, 
not louder than a sigh. 

Mark’s hand was on his arm quickly. 

“Tell me all.” 

“ I only meant to say good-l)y. Perhaps 
I ought not to speak of it — peibaps I should 
bear it alone. But God — oh, my thoughts 
are hell ! ” he burst out, in sudden agony. 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


143 


and sprang up, liis face twitching. I took 
your hand when I came in. I am not fit to 
touch it. In that picture I look honest. But 
I am a thief.” 

They w^ere the hardest words he had ever 
uttered, yet he spoke clearly and with burn- 
ing self-contempt. 

There, with Mark’s hands gripped fast on 
his arm, with face turned away and many 
pauses in the telling, the whole story was 
won from him. 

^‘Now you know all,” he said, passion- 
ately, thro^ving up his hand with a hopeless 
gesture ; I didn’t wmnt you to go away 
thinking well of me. A man is the meanest 
thief who steals what is entrusted to him. 
She trusted me. Come, don’t be chaiy of 
your opinion. Tell me I have played the 
blackguard. Scourge me with words like 
whips. Nothing you can say or think of me 
can be half so scorching as the judgment my 
conscience has passed upon me.” 

Mark stood for a moment as if incapable of 
realizing what the torrent of words meant. 


lU 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


“ Don’t you see ? The woman I should 
have snstainetl in lier 2'ood resolve I have 
dragged lower. Don’t you understand ? 
All, tliat’s what hurts ! ’ he cried Avildly. 

Ohj if you knew how she came to me, 
wliat she said to me, how she relied on me ! 
My words at the Mission touched her. She 
Avas to have been so true, so strong. She 
said I was the one good in her life — my God ! 
Think of it. And now that is all undone. I, 
the liar, the adulterei*, am to blame. She 
loves me. We are shipwrecked together.” 
Mark leaned toward him, his pale face illu- 
mined. At the first words spoken in the 
same gentle voice that had won his boyisli 
confidences, Hugh’s burning eyes filled with 
tears. 

Since you suffer, Plugh, I cannot re- 
proach you. Your remorse seals my lips. 

There are men who call themselves moral 

\ 

who Avould think lightly of ^vhat you have 
done. Thank God, you are not one of them. 
Moments of temptation such as you have de- 
scribed come to all men, they liave come to 


TUE OTHER HOUSE. 


145 


me, they will come to you again. Your fine 
sense of personal honor is wounded no^v. It 
hurts you, and that pain means hope. But 
it is the next atfront to it that will be fatal. 
What are you going to do ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ But you stand halting between two 
paths. Which will you take ? ” 

I don’t know.” 

“Hugh, look up. Look at me. You say 
you love this woman ? ” 

“ Beyond the telling.” 

“ Then temptation will come to you again 
as surely as you both live,” cried Mark, with 
vehemence. “ Will you be strong ? Will 
you remember that there is no joy in life 
like that wliich comes from conquering self ? 
What is life but a succession of memories ? 
Almost in a breath to-day becomes yester- 
day, gone forever. But the poisoned recol- 
lection of guilty pleasure stays and eats into 
the heart. Our memories are all that last. 
Like travellers, they keep pace with us 
through life. Oh, keep them clean.” 


146 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


Yes, Mark, yes ; ” and the look upon liis 
face ^vrung Mark’s heart ; it is my deter- 
mination to undo as well as I can what I 
have done. But how ? Is that possible ? ” 
Go far away fi*om Marian Trent. Put 
her absolutely out of your path. Induce 
your wife to return to yon. Make the most 
^our life. Do not hesitate, do not parley. 
The way is clear.” 

That would be riglit,” Hugh muttered, 
and a tremor of anguish passed over him ; 

Jenny to return to me — Jenny to come 
])ack. That Avould be right, although my 
heart is like stone to her. Well, I’ll do it. 
She was senseless as a block to go away. 
Had she been a little merciful to that poor 
o;irl, this horiible conclusion would never 
have been reached. But no — ^oh no ! She to 
feel pity? The cruelest judge woman has is 

woman. No need to sliow her a stone readv 

•/ 

for lier hand ; never fear, she will find one 
for herself.” 

A short, hitter laugh left his lips, and he 
started for the door. 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


147 

You will return and tell me tlie result of 
your interview with Jenny. Here is a key. 
Come, no matter how late.” 

Hugh took it absently from the delicate, 
browned fingers, and felt Ins' own detained 
in a fervent clasp. 

“jDo nothing rash. Come l)ack to me, if 
only for a moment, without fail. The strong 
are sometimes weak, Hugh ; but strength can 
be born anew of weakness.” 

He was again on the sunny, dusty street, 
one of the passing show, a feeling like death 
at his heart, and Mark’s last words echoing 
in his ears. Strange thought to be thinking 
on that thoroughfare, filled with the whirr of 
trade and perpetual traffic. 

Streno;th can be born anew of weakness.” 
It was the dinner hour at Mrs. Walton’s 
as he went up the steps and rang the bell. 
The hall smelled of mutton. A woman’s 
laugh floated from the basement, mingling 
unmusically with the clink of knives and 
forks. He asked for Mrs. Larremore, but 


gave no name. 


148 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


In the room where he sat do^vn to wait 
the dust lay thickly. The roll of \vheels, 
the voices of children came through the open 
window. Some music he recognized as Jenny’s 
lay on the piano. A picture of her in her 
graduating dress hung on the wall opposite ; 
the roses she carried, and against which her 
diploma rested with girlish awkwardness, 
had been his first gift. 

He noted all these thino;s witii a one-sided 
consciousness while listening for a footstep 
in the hall, and wondering ho^v it would all 
end. 

The children outside the Avindow had 
grown tired of their game, and he Iiad be- 
come familiar with every detail of the untidy 
place before the flooi* creaked under a heavy 
tread, and a stout woinaii in a widow’s cap 
swmyed into the room. 

Mrs. Walton had never liked her son-in- 
law. He had Avon Jenny at a time when 
there Avas every promise of a pros]:>erous 
marriage to a church-going young man, Avith 
a fortune in the coal business. That a strim- 

O 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


149 


gling medical student bad captured her dar- 
lino: Lad been a tliorii in Mrs. Walton’s 
heart, even after he had vindicated himself 
by proving his ability to support his wife in- 
dependent of lier mother. 

She stood in the doorway now, her bi’eath 
coming in puffs, her ])lue eyes, so like 
Jenny’s, save that tliey were set in a protrud- 
ing framework of flesli, gleaming with anger 
and accusation. 

Good evening, Dr. Larremore. I 
thought it was yon,” and her tone was as 
icy as her short breath permitted. “ I said 
to myself, ^ that’s him.’ Nobody else 1 
know ’d be ashamed to give his name. If it 
ain’t too much to inquire, may I ask why 
you’ve come here ? ” 

To see my wife. I made that request on 
entering.’' 

Mrs. Walton’s gaze swept him from head 
to foot. ' 

Like your impudence. You took my 
daughter from me once — but you sha’n’t 
again. Ah ! had she listened to me then — 


150 


THE OTHEB HOUSE. 


but there’s no use going over that — only 
— she’d be riding in her carriage now, with 
servants to v^ait on her. Servants ! What 
didn’t she give up for you, and what did she 
get for it ? My jjoor child ! If you’d come 
when she’d finished telling me her story, I 
would not have received you so mildly, I can 
tell you. But I’ve thoiight it over, and since 
she’s of the same mind with me you can hear 
the truth, and go. My daughter ’ll never go 
bach to you,” she said, placing her hands on 
her knees and leaniim forward. “ Never ! 

o 

She’s done with you. She’s Avashed her 
hands of you ! You needn’t try to find 
her, nor to force her. She’s not in this city. 
Thank God, she’s far aAvay.” 

“ You misunderstand me altogether,” Hugh 
said, quietly, Ainmoved by the tirade ; “ if 
you think I wish to force your daughter to 
anything. Is it her Avish to avoid me, or 
haA'e you sent her aAvay ? I merely Avant to 
knoAV her mind. I Avant to knoAV if it is ab- 
solutely true that she leaves me of her oavu 
free will. If she Avere here, I Avould ask her 



“Mils. M"AT/rON HOSE AND STAKED AT HIM LIKE A HASILISK.’" 









THE OTHER HOUSE. 


151 


to return and tell lier there are no reasonable 
conditions I would not accept. That I am to 
blame I freely acknowledge, though at the 
time she left I did not deserve her susj)icions. 
I want her back, Mrs. Walton. I want her 
very much. If she comes I will do all in 
my power to make her hajipy, I swear.” 

There was none of the yearning or ten- 
derness of a man suing for the return of 
the woman he loved in these words, but 
they ^vere earnestly spoken, and his sincer- 
ity was unquestionable. A monk whose sen- 
sitive soul smarted from the memory of some 
sin might have asked for his hair shirt in 
much the same spirit as Hugh put forth his 
plea for his wife. 

Mrs. Walton rose and stared at him like 
a basilisk. 

“ I’d rather see her dead than that. Your 
words don’t influence me. And Jenny has 
done witli you. Oh, no — I didn’t send her 
away. She was glad to go. Glad ! Things 
have changed witli us. My brother died last 
week, and Jenny has a fine legacy. She isn’t 


152 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


dependent on you, Dr. Larremore, but all 
the same I’ll see she gets her rights.” 

A meaning smile played over her puffy 
face. 

“ I wonder if you beard of it. I wonder 
if the money made you come seeking your 
lawful wife ! ” she cried. 

A fierce auger swelled Hugh’s heart, and 
he bit his lip to remain silent. 

“ Do you know what youi‘ daughter in- 
tends to do ? ” he asked impatiently. 

“ Not to get a divorce, if you mean that. 
We don’t believe in it. But if she gets a 
separation you can’t bother her. She only 
wants to be rid of you. She don’t ^rant to 
many again. My daughter is like me — -no 
two husbands for her — it’s against Scripture. 
As for you,” she paused and measured him 
for her most spiteful shaft : “ I guess from 
all I hear of this Miss Ti'ent, that she won’t 

m 

mind if there’s no divorce.” 

A sneer passed over Hugh’s face more elo- 
quent than Avords. Mark had softened his 
heart to Avonianishness. This woman Avai’ped 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


153 


it to steel. After all, why should he try to 
win his wife back ? Had he not known for 
years they had nothing in common ? Had 
they not really been separated since he had 
first felt a man’s better knowledge and awak- 
ened hopes striving within him ? Since she 
would not come, let her go. The effort to 
regain her was a sop to his conscience, but 
she was not worth a harder struggle. He 
had no desire to hear the word of ultimate 
ending from her lips. 

He went away and aimlessly Avalked the 
streets for hours. The summer night was 
filled with sound. The city was awake and 
happy. A disinclination to return at once to 
Mark overcame him. 

Dear, kind, patient Mark, who had slain all 
earthly desire, what did he know, after all, 
of the fierce battle raging in his heart ; of 
the revolt against the accented misery of his 
life ; of tlie clamorous yearning of stubborn 
youth that swept through him, demanding 
freedom, light, and love ? 

In the endeavor to escape from his 


154 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


thonglits lie entered a restaurant on Union 
Square, and, scarcely toucliing the food 
placed before liini, sat like one watching a 
play. 

At the various tables men and women 
Avere scattered in twos and thi'ees. He only 
Avas alone, feeling that penetrating loneliness 
that comes of lieing one in a ci’oaaA, Two 
youths near him discussed family letters re- 
ceived that day from France. Over his 
shoulder he heard the popping of a cork, a 
question, a pert reply in a Avoman’s light 
voice, then low’, continuous laughter. The 
fragrance of Auolets mixing Avith the pun- 
gent smell of cigarettes came to him in Avaves 
of narcotic SAveetness. A Avomau in spai'k- 
ling black rustled by and gaAm him a bold, 
admiring glance. Nature had moulded her 
regular features on heavy lines, and her 
cheeks Avere rouged, but there Avas still a 
faint I'esemblance to Marian in her dark 
eyes, sufficient to send a SAvift pang through 
his heart, as if she had recalled one neAvly 
dead. 


TEE OTHER HOUSE. 


155 


He turned sharply to the window beside 
which he sat. There was the leafy darkness 
of the little park, the blinking lights fronx 
waiting cabs. A great, Ixrown Ixuilding 
across the square was silhouetted against the 
sky, where the milky way hung like a veil 
over a chain of stars. One of Waldteufel’s 
languishing waltzes was dolorously piunjxed 
from a barrel ororan on the curb. 

O 

And all of ' these impressions knit them- 
selves around the one thought ever present 
with him ; the thought of Marian. The pain- 
easing fragrance, the dreamy waltz, the 
woman’s face, the watching stars whispered 
the one intense truth in different Avays. 

It Avas late Avhen he left the restaurant. 
He Avalked doAvn Broadway until he hap- 
pened upon a dimly lighted cross street. It 
invited him aiid he turned into it, aimlessly 
Avalking AvestAAmixI for a long Avay. His 
miserable eyes sought the sky, but it gave 
back no answer, neither Avas there a Avhis- 
per of consolation in the breeze that had 
arisen Avith the night. His heart fed upon 


156 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


itself, heavy with an unanswerable ques- 
tion. 

\ 

WJien lie looked up a tlirill shot tlirougli 
liim, and lie di*ew a long breatli. The river 
lay before him, acres of rippling silver, 
fretted along its near edge by the gaunt rig- 
ging of anchored ships, a full-orbed moon 
swinging low in the mist that trailed like a 
ribbon along the horizon. Except for a 
group of dro^vsy sailors and a few poor 
motliers crooniiif^ to fretful babies, the black 

O f 

wharf was deserted. 

Hugh walked to the outermost post and 
crossed his arms upon it. He gazed into 
the light as if he would fill his soul with it. 
It was so peaceful there. 

And he knew that before he left that place 
he must decide what should be the burden 
of his future years. 

Marian loved him — ay, even as he loved 
her. Had she not told him so with tears and 
burning kisses ? If he could lose all to lind 
everything in her love ! Oh, the thought 
was terribly sweet in its defiance. 






THE OTHER HOUSE. 157 


To take her, to hold her, to keep her in 
spite of law or right, to fill his life with the 



beauty of her smile, to be hers absolute- 
ly, forever, and she his. What need to try 
to hold to his old ideals ? They slipped 
from him in that terrible moment as sand 




158 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


througli listless fingers. Still lie gazed into 

the light, 

^ \ 

By degrees the keen, troubled sweetness of 
tlie longing that ravished him faded. What 
was this new feeling that crept in, this 
strange power growing like a sixth sense ? 
A sensation of remoteness from himself de- 
scended upon his heart, subduing jiain and 
joy and struggle. It ^vas as if he had 
shaken off his own personality and was look- 
ing back upon his life abstractlj'', with a fine 
power of discrimination never possessed 
before. 

His eyes were unsealedj and he recoiled 
from what he saw. The reckless exultation 
had gone as if brushed away by a hand of 
ice. Only for a moment liad he dreamed of 
what could never be. Love was not enough, 
since guilt Avalked Avith it. 

He knew it now. 

Love Avould die, and ambition and truth, 
like Avhite flowers poisoned in the noxious 
air of a SAvamp. 

He kneAv it now. 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


159 


Even to see Marian sometimes would be im- 
possible. His good resolves would die igno- 
bly, liis self-respect be finally murdered by 
liis own acts, and this something in his nat- 
ure, that upbi’aided and reasoned now, break 
loose, a wounded giant, and crush him. The 
wrench must come at once and be complete. 

A shadow passed over his face. What 
was that Mark had said about conquering 
self? Was there a life before him still, 
where he might stand alone, staunch though 
tried, a life apart from Marian, but sweet for 
both with the sweets of repentance ? 

No answer came, and as he remained mo- 
tionless, like a man on the lookout watching 
for sight of land, he saw a great vessel glide 
from a wdiarf close at hand. It crossed the 
path of light with ponderous stateliness and 
slipped into the shadows until it was only a 
big black hulk stealing a\vay wdth the tide. 

But strangely enough the ship’s departure 
made a desii’e, potent and absoi’bing, start to 
life within him — the wish to slip away into 
the shadows and begin anew somewhere — a 


160 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


remorseful desire to atone somehow, the first 
thouarht of self-sacrifice. 

o 

Mark was going on the moiTow. Oh, that 
he had strength for such complete self-forget- 
fulness. Mark was going on the morrow, 
never to return. 

An eagerness, an exaltation, brightened his 
face. He could go with Mark if he would. 
There was nothing to prevent. Mai'k would 
be glad he knew. With his medical knowl- 
edge and skill he could do much in the leper 
colony. Though cure was as yet considered 
impossible, he could relieve and cheer. 

The thought was overpowering. It came 
back again and again. To go with Mark ! 

But could he ? What ! End his life so ? 
Renounce the ambition that Avhispered of 
great things to his own glory, still to be 
done ? Surrender everything he had best 
loved to overcome himself ? Surrender love 
offering sweetness so subtly mixed with 
poison ? And his young life, that only a 
little while ago had promised so much, and 
his dreams, that had lain so warmly against 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


IGl 


his heart ? Could he give up all and go to 
be nothing, accepting the bitterness of a 
daily and hourly expiation ? From the 
depths of his soul there came a cry : 

“ No, no ! ” and his hands knotted them- 
selves in pain. 

There was brightness all around, but night 
with him. 

After a long time he looked up into the 
moonlight with wild, dry eyes. But it 
would not be for nothing. There was surely 
a triumph in giving all for others. If he 
gave his life, he gave all. Words he had 
heard somewhere came back to him like a 
voice through the flooding light : 

4 

“ To give one’s life is better than one’s alms ; 

To spend, be spent, beyond the gift of gold.” 

Yes, he saw it all so clearly now. A quick 
breath came from his parted lips, as if he 
had ascended to a height where the air was 
rarefied. 

How could he have failed to see the truth 
before, how questioned it ? That way lay 
redemption; that sacrifice promised peace. 


CHAPTER XI. 


The more lie tlioiiglit upon tliis, the more 
fixed became liis determination to go Avith 
Mark. By the time he reached the Mission 
rooms he AA^as in a feA^er of anxiety lest any- 
thing imconsidered might happen to preA’ent. 

Mark, at first, Avas strenuously against the 
suggestion. He had had such high hopes for 
Hugh. It seemed to him a good thing, and 
a fitting thing for a dreamy, disappointed 
man like himself to go into exile, but the 
Avorld needed men of Huarh’s calibre in the 

o 

thick of the fight. 

o 

They talked far into the night. In vain 
did Mark picture the terrors of isolation, 
the eating loneliness of the plague-stricken 
colony, the loathsomeness of the disease to 
Avhich in all probability they Avould sooner 
or later succumb. 

Hugh heard him unmoved. 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


163 


“ There is another side to it, Mark : a 
side that carries healing. I want to go — I 
want it moi'e than I can tell you. It is 
going with you or going to perdition. Now, 
will you take me ? ” 

He had his wish. 

It was arrano;ed between them that what- 
ever ready money Hugli had he would 
need to take with him. After closing his 
house he could send word to his wife to dis- 
pose of it and everything it contained. Then 
good-by to Marian, good-by to Macedon 
Place, to the old life, to the work he had 
loved, to the world he had lived in. 

The brooding dawn crept wistfully into 
the room and surprised them still talking. 

A weight of fire was pressing on Hugh’s 
brain, making it swim and throb ; his eyes, 
too, were burning, but slee]^ Avas far away. 
He felt the need of movement. Oh, the 
restlessness that tortured him, the terror 
of silence and his oavii thoughts. His one 
desire was to have the first step irrevocably 
taken. 


164 


TEE OTHER HOUSE. 


The train they were going on left for the 
west at eleven. There was no time to waste, 
and refusing Mark’s invitation to share his 
early breakfast, he started at once for Mace- 
don Place. 

As the ferry-boat crossed the river the sun 
came out gloriously. It was a fine morning, 
warm, but with a glad breeze blowing, the 
sky a windy azure. Only a few people were 
ci’ossing so early, and he had the front deck 
to himself. He did not pause for a moment 
in his uneasy walk, keeping all thought at 
bay, save that he was going away. This even 
the paddle-Avheel seemed to whisper in husky 
gushes to the waves, and the waters sobbed 
it back in a rippling minor. 

He felt a soft content at having decidea 
so well. He knew the change Avas to be, yet 
hoAV strange it was ! — try as he would he 
could not truly realize that soon thousands 
of miles would yaAvn betAveen these rushing 
cities and the island that Avas to be his home 
henceforAvard. It was like the fabric of a 
dream. This strange disunion of fact and 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


1G5 


sensibility gave him a feeling of wonder, but 
that, too, was vague, impersonal. He could 
scarcely have felt more indifferent if the pro- 
jected upheaval were contemplated by some- 
one else. Accompanying this torpidity was 
a forelvnowled2;e that the calm would not 
continue, that the moment must inevitably 
come when he would suffer terril)ly under the 
wrench, and all the feeling dulled now rush 
over him, a flood of blinding, biting strength. 

When the boat was exchanged for the 
train he sat, with absorbed gaze, looking out 
at the land, the hills rolling away impur- 
pled in shadow, the breeze running low 
through the long bright grasses. It was 
very lovely. Strange that he felt no regret 
at the thought of leaving it all. 

But at the first glimpse of Macedon Place 
a tiny shaft of penetrating pain twisted 
through him. Ah, this was so endeared by 
long acquaintance, so a part of the busy life 
that had promised him success, perhaps 
fame ! Vain dreams, indeed, banished for- 


ever now. 


166 


TEE OTHER HOUSE. 


He could not look unmoved for tlie last 
time on tlie old place. How thick and fresh 
the grass Avas behind the iron palings. Not 
a bough, not a branch, that Avas not nodding, 
not a leaf that Avas not joyously fluttering. 
The dcAV lay upon the leaves, the clean sun- 
shine caressed them, the fretted, shimmering 
tree-tops AAdiisj^ered their summer songs to 
him. 

For the last time. 

He gaA^e one miserable glance at the other 
house before enterino* his oavu. It Avas shut- 

o 

tered and silent. Marian Avas still asleep. 
That Avas Avell, for he had much to do, iu a 
short space of time, befoi’e going to her to 
ask her forgiveness and say good-1>y. 

Half a dozen business letters, a feAA" to 
friends, one to Jenny, the packing of a trunk, 
instructions to the sleepy-ejmd servant, aaAio 
splashed Avith tears the money he placed in 
her hand, and all AAms done. So soon. He 
sat in the deep study chair, his hands grasp- 
ing its sides, as he looked around on each 
familiar thing. How easy it Avas, after all, 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


167 


to tear up the roots liabit and circumstance 
liad set. 

The letters were in liis pocket, to be sent 
when he returned to New York. There was 
l)ut one thino; more. 

Marian — oh, my dear, 1113^ dear ! ” 

The muscles of his throat contracted, a 
film fell over his eyes. Ah, he loved her, 
and would wliile he iiad life. But for that 
love, forbidden to both, he must leave hei*. 
Strength was his, and he was glad to go. In 
the long vigil of the preceding night he had 
learned many things : liow love indulged at 
the cost of honor must fail miserably and 
degrade, but how the voice in a man’s soul, 
that whispers hope or condemnation, can 
never die, though for a while it may be for- 
gotten or stifled. 

He grasped his hat, and stepping over the 
low sill of the window, as he had so often 
done before in a life that seemed already 
over and done with, walked slowly down the 
path and entered Marian’s garden. 

A man was cutting the grass, and the hall 


168 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


door stood open. The servant that answered 
his ring drew back the portiere before the 
little drawing-room, where the sunshine fil- 
tered in through a shimmer of pale silk. 

He waited fully half an hour for her com- 
ing, a blur making everything indistinct 
l:)efore him. Just behind him a little clock 
struck the half hour after nine, the silvery 
thread-like note stirring him with a painful 
sense of uneasiness. 

He had not counted on this delay. The 
train that Avoidd carrv him to the boat in 

t/ 

time to meet Mark left shortly after ten. 
Why did she not come ? Surely such an 
early visit must augur something important 
to her. 

How cold his hands were. A feeling of 
deathly sickness rushed over him. A horri- 
ble, nervous something kept rising in his 
throat. 

He had reached the front windows in his 
restless pacing, when he heard a sound, and 
turning, saw Marian. At sight of the living 
face his tenderest memory of her paled. In 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


1G9 


her buoyant passage tliroiigli the room she 
crossed a iniri*or’s face and touched it with 
color. Her plain muslin gown of delicate 
blue and loosely-braided hair gave her an en- 
chanting look of youth and abandon. Her 
eyes were still warm from her dreams ; her 
face glowed. The whole woman had awa- 
kened ; her happiness followed her like a 
melody, and she was adorable as the bunch 
of wild flowers in her girdle. 

But Hugh did not move to meet her. By 
an etfort unspeakably hard he controlled the 
quivering of his pulses, the rush of yearning 
transfixing and choking him. His arms re- 
mained stoically folded on his breast, his lips 
were ashen. 

How long does it take a woman to read 
the face of the man she loves, and read it un- 
erringly ? A moment ? No, not so long. A 
glance? Scarcely that. 

It was two days since Hugh had left her 
with reckless promises and rapturous words 
of love. She had Avatched for his return, di- 
vining that he was struggling against her 


170 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


power. What perplexed and I’estless days 
to her, em2:>ty of purpose, action, of every- 
thing save abandoned, stormy reveries of her 
love ! For this was love, indeed. It had 
opened a new life to her. She looked on a 
transfi<>;iired Avorld. It Avas the whole ecstatic 
of lierself without a tliouo^bt as to 

O O o 

the rii^lit or wroue: of it. If it was sin, 
then he was wortli the siimino;. Passion and 
reverence were in this feeling, the most vital, 
the most terrible she had ever experienced. 

The night before she had dreamed of 
Hugh. It had seemed that all but they two 
had died and the vacant world was theirs 
only. Oh, the delight that had wrapped 
them about as they stood looking over an 
unknown sea of bewildeilmr vastness into 
the crimson-clotted clouds of an unearthly 
sunset, with not a sail on the desert of 
waters, not a soul in sight, not a sound but 
the harmonies of nature — tliey two the only 
living things beneath the sky. In that dream 
she had felt his heart boundinor aerainst hers, 
Lad been thrilled and dazzled under the pas- 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


171 


sion glittering in liis eyes, as their sighing 
lips met in a close, breathless kiss. 

Then she awoke to the enij^tiness of the 
room. 

She did not know^ ^vdiether Hii^^h was still 
away, or if he had returned during the night. 
She did not know where he had gone, 
though she had guessed why. But she 
knew of a siu^ety that her world was where 
he was, that without him life had notliing 
to olfer her. 

She lay on her bed filled with these 
thoughts, her dreaming eyes looking beyond 
the confines of the room, seeing nothing but 
the shadowy memory of his face, when the 
sound of the gate closing had made her 
spring up, her cheeks grown suddenly ruddy 
as the heart of a rose, and hurry to the 
window. He was coming up the path to 
her door. 

Yes, he had come back. After remorse, of 
wdiich she was now incapable, after unsuc- 
cessfully fighting his heart, he had sougJit 
her again. 

O 


172 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


Her fingers trembled as slie hurriedly 
dressed. The blood throbbed in her lips, she 
was tingling with excitement and happiness. 
She pictured their meeting, his savage ten- 
derness, his admission of defeat because his 
eternal love was too strono- to be mastered 

o 

or limited by the considei’ations of the 
hour. 

It would be a sweet moment when she 
heard this from his lips. And the future — 
their future — oh, it was indefinite, delicious. 
What mattered it how they spent it, or 
where, so that they Avere together. 

Hugh was poor ; she Avas lich. That he 
would not use a penny of her Avealth for 
himself, she Avell knew. And she laughed 
in a fcAmrish, exultant Avay as she pinned the 
starry flowers in her belt, thinking how 
SAveet it Avould be to go aAvay from this 
place Avhere they Avem knoAvn, and live Avith 
him, even in small, close rooms — Avork for 
him, Avitli him, too — and be his helpmeet 
truly, as a Avomau Avith brain and imagina- 
tion only could. 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


173 


So slie had dreamed until she stood be- 
fore him, and in the twinkling of an eye 
had understood all that his pale, unyield- 
ing face and altered attitude implied. He 
had come back. Yes, but not as she had 
fancied. He was the master where she had 
looked for the slave. How fortified, how 
secure, he was. That he had suffered was 
evident, but in the glory of his eyes she 
read an aspiration almost divine that lifted 
him beyond her. 

For a moment she stood rigid, fascinated, 
dumb. But only for a moment, ere she 
threw out her arms to him, with an inde- 
scribable cry of love. 

“Come no nearer,” he said, in a voice 
thick from repression, as he unfastened her 
clinging fingers from his arm and gently 
repulsed her. “The word that must be 
spoken between us had better be said so.” 

“What word, Hugh? — what word'?” 

How the imploring passion in her voice 

racked him ! He looked awav from her. 

%/ 

“ Good-by. It is hard to say it, Marian, 


174 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


SO hard ; but hard conditions make it nec- 
essary. You understand that if you have 

\ 

tlioiiglit at all. 

Good-by. Then her first shuddering 
thought was true. 

The room was swallowed up in mist for a 
moment, and she seemed looking at him 
througli a veil spun by the years. 

■She clasped her hands in sudden, awful pain. 

“ I know — yes — your wife. Well ? ” 

“ No,” he said, clearly. “ No ; I will never 
see my wife again. It is not that. 1 am 
going away alone, far away, for my whole 
life, Marian.” 

In broken, rapid sentences he told hei’, 
omitting nothing of his temptation, his 
thoughts on the wharf, before he became 
strono- enoimh to make tlie sacrifice. 

“ But now, I go gladly for both our sakes. 
I must go. It has to I)e. Nothing less 
could help me. And you Avill say that you 
forgive — oh, you will say it once — yes, here 
with your hands in mine. I don’t deserve it. 
Still, you will say it ? ” 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


175 


Slie made no answer to his appeal. There 
was only room in her mind for one, appalling 
truth, which threatened to strip her life bare 
and leave it desolate. 

I can’t bear it ! I can’t ! ” her voice rang 
out ; ‘^you don’t mean that we must separate 
— now. You don’t mean that. Oh, take me 
with you. I’ll go anywliere — to the ends of 
the earth with you — only take me — take 
me ! ” 

A wildness shot into her eyes, and in spite 
of liis reluctant arms she crept to his breast, 
holding his face between her hands, laying 
her cheek with cliiucino: tenderness a2:ainst 
his. 

It was hard to pain her so. Very, very 
hard. 

No, dear, no,” she murmured, with pitiful 
incoherence. You won’t go. You can’t 
do it. Oh, it would be worse, far worse, 
than if you were dead — to know that you 
lived — and yet never, never to see you again ! 
It is too awful. Oh, I love you — I love you 
so. I’ll go with you, if you'll take me. I’ll 


176 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


share your exile, your suffering. I’ll do 
anything you ask. I’ll never murmur or 
complain. But I cannot part from you, 
Hugh, I cannot ! ” 

She caressed his liaii*, laid her lips xipon 
his throat. She held her breath in terroi', 
exhausted by the vehemence of her plead- 
ing. 

Hugh drew down her hands and looked at 
her ^vith something staunch and irrevocable 
in his glance. 

“ Take you ? That would defeat the veiy 
resolution which has determined me to leave 
you. Have you not understood ? Thei'e is 
no appeal fj'om my decision ! ” and the words 
leaped out with a warning that was defiant : 
“ You cannot stifie the voice that bids me 
go. You must not try.” 

As he put her from him and moved away, 
Marian stood irresolute for an instant, her 
hands open, helpless, at her sides. Her eyes 
followed him as he turned and looked back 
at hei‘, and her expi'ession changed. Accusa- 
tion, fmy, despair were written on her face. 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


177 


What do you want me to do ? ” 

Her voice was steady, but her mouth 
twitched. He could see her body tremble 
although she stood erect. 

Dear, don’t think me hard,” he said, with 
sudden, exquisite tenderness. “ Save me 
and save yourself.” 

Save myself ? ” she echoed, her eyes flam- 
ing ; you say this to me ? I tried once — 
whose fault was it that I failed ? ” 

She reached his side and raised her face 
close to his, something awful, something that 
made his heart stand still impregnating her 
unwavering gaze. 

What of me ? ” 

He made no answer. 

What of me ? ” she asked again. With- 
out you, I am lost. You roused the longing 
to be good before 1 knew I loved you, but it 
was because I loved you, nevertheless. Kill 
it now, and I will never feel it again. I 
tell you there is no hope for me except by 
your side. I am miserably dependent on 
you.” 


178 


TEE OTHER HOUSE. 


Her desperate words challenged him, as a 
judge’s might a prisoner A\dio, on the very 
threshold of acquittal, finds himself recalled 
to pay the full penalty of his crime. • 

Do you owe me nothing ? I did not 
seek you, did I ? Did not tempt you? The 
idle coquetry of the early days was done 
with. I ^cas sincere, if ever a woman was. 
And now,” she asked in a bitter semi-tone, 
throwing; 1>ack her head and lookiim at him 

o o 

through half-closed eyes, as if measuring the 
effect of her words ; when you have set 
me aside to start out on your mission of mer- 
cy, when 3^011 have left me Avithout a desire, 
without a hope, haixlened and i*eckless, what 
will become of me ? You did not ask your- 
self that, did you, Hugh ? You wei*e self- 
engrossed in your remoi’se. You did not I’e- 
member 3^011 had robl)ed me of my strength 
and self-reliance — when 3^011 made me love 
you.” 

II ugh’s sense sickened at the words. oil, 
tliey were true ! Tlie lioiTor of her rudder- 
less, lonely future as it stretched away before 


7 / 



‘ ‘ WHAT AVILIj become OP ME I* 





THE OTHER HOUSE, 


179 


her, he saw clearly with her eyes for the first 
time. The grimness of the equal retribu- 
tion demanded gripped his heart. But it 
was just. What was it other than the sin 
he had found so desirable, calling to him 
now in insistent, imperious tones. It cried 
to him, but without temptation. 

Weak and pleading again, Marian threw 
herself on her knees, and flung her arms 
around his body. He could never forget her 
changed face as, holding him in an iin23otent, 
impassioned grasp, she looked up at him. 

“ Oh, how can you cast me off like this 
and go away ? How can you do it ? ” she 
called, in bitter pain. You will have work, 
new scenes, balm for your wounded con- 
science — I, nothing but the burning meinoiy 
of you, a pliantom by my side — the woman’s 
part of recollection and regret.” 

She l)i*oke down completely, her weeping 
rose and fell, her tears moistened his hand. 

A turmoil of indecision and iniso;iviinr 

o O 

swej^t over Hugh, a nebulum of pain tlirongli 
wliich lier continued prayers came faintly to 


180 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


him, like a voice afar ofE crying in a wilder- 
ness. 

In the perfumed skill ness of the room, the 
clock struck ten. His face grew ghastly. 
But a little while longer might he linger 
there. Never had he loved Marian as in that 
moment, nor felt her half so desirable, nor 
the magnitude of his contemplated self- 
sacrifice so heavy on his heart. 

He leaned down, and pressing his hands 
hard upon her shoulders, held her away, his 
eyes commanding hers. 

“ You know all that the wing means to 

o cD 

both of us. It is like death to leave you. Oh, 
I do love you ! Believe that, whatever comes. 
But I would conquer myself if you would let 
me. I would have you obey the instinct that 
once urged you to come and tell me all. I 
cannot choose. Decide for me. Shall we 
sink everything in obedience to the voice of 
the fiesh, or shall I go away and snatch 
peace from the grasp of pain ? Your answer 
— shall I go or stay ? There is but a mo- 
ment for a decision that must stand forevei'.” 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


181 


It was as if be bad given ber tbe choice 
of bis life or cleatb. Sbe read this in 
bis words that came with strangled breaths. 
Sbe looked at liini with fear and hesitation. 

Ob, bow strange a thing is tbe heart of 
woman ! bow wonderful ! Her reproaches, 
which bad scarcely faded on tbe air, tbe 
cries of ber passionate heart, remained in 
her memory only like whispers breatlied 
from sbadowland. His words and tone bad 
vividl}^ recalled tbe night at tbe Mission, 
when be bad held tbe cup of life to ber lips, 
bad shown ber ber naked soul. 

Tbe heavy thought of all tbe coming years 
without him fell around her like a shadow. 
He bad left bis life in her hands. There 
was but one word needed to hold him. But 
to stifle the promptings of that other self, 
who seemed to rise a calm-eyed, question- 
ing, waiting victor above the wretched man 
hesitating before her — could she do it ? 

She looked at him across a wreck made 
up of broken faith and pitiful human pas- 
sion, and seemed to see the white light still 


182 


THE OTHER HOUSE. 


undimmed that lingered there. Could she 
make him cling to her and so quench that 
light forever ? Ah, could she slay his 
soul ? 

How would it be if she lived to see the 
imprint of self-contempt and defeat always 
on that dear face, and know it as her doing ? 
How would it be with her then ? 

“ Oh, God! ” 

There was an imprecation on life, a blas- 
phemy, an appeal in those two words. She 
wruno; her hands and beat them aa^ainst her 
breast, crying to him to go, to leave hei’, 
while she was strong enough to say the 
words. 

As in a dream she heard the sigh that 
broke from Hugh’s full heart, she felt his 
hand on her bowed head, she heard his whis- 
pered blessing. 

“ Go — go from me ! No, don’t touch me, 
don’t speak to me. Go quickly.” 

But before he had reached the door, she 
called him back and rose heavily to her feet. 
Her eyes were clouded and weary. 


THE OTHER HOUSE, 


183 


Kiss me,” she said, quietly. 

And, when he gathered her to his heart, 
she laid on his lips a kiss as passionless, as 
eloquent of despairing submission as those 
we give the dead. 

Even after the outer door had shut be- 
hind him and he had passed from her sight, 
she remained beside the window, stunned 
and lonely, her fingers absently plucking at 
the folds of her gown. 

She gazed into the velvet air of the morn- 
ing. 

The faint Avhistle of a train came from the 
distance, and she started as if a knife had 
pierced her. 

Far away a thin column of retreating 
smoke rose into the clouds. 



s 


I 






